


His Experiment

by Andersaur



Series: Spotting Studies [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Established Relationship, M/M, Mental Institutions, Sherlock is dumb for not listening to himself., There's a load of confusing shit going down here, Werewolf!Sherlock, werewolf!john
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-30
Updated: 2013-10-05
Packaged: 2017-12-13 11:06:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 25
Words: 43,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/823597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Andersaur/pseuds/Andersaur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Six months after Moriarty’s disappearance following the April incident, Mycroft is keeping Sherlock well away from the whole case and things have finally settled down at Baker Street.<br/>So what’s wrong with Sherlock?</p><p>Sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/678847/chapters/1243947">What Experiment?</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The first thing Sherlock became aware of was the constant beep going right through his head. He tried to go back to sleep, but when he turned his head to settle more comfortably, he was certain he'd heard his name. He ignored it.

“Sherlock, can you hear me?”

_Evidently._

He ignored it again.

“Come on, Sherlock, not this time. Please.”

_John._

It was John, and he sounded tired. And a little bit desperate.

Sherlock grunted and lifted his hand up to rub his eyes. Jesus, his head was pounding, and what the hell was on his hand? He could feel plastic touching his cheek, something pulling at the back of his hand. He blinked his eyes open, glad to find the room rather dim. It must have been night time. The curtains were drawn, after all. But there was light coming in from around them—

Sherlock pulled himself back to the task at hand. His head wasn’t working properly, though he wasn’t really aware of it. Once he managed to get the world to focus he saw that John was gone. Had John ever been there in the first place? He thought he’d heard him—

 _Hand,_ he reminded himself. He lifted his right hand, the one that seemed free of hitchhikers, and plucked off the peg on his finger, tossing it aside.

Then came the awful monotonous screech in his ears.

Again, he tried to ignore it, shrugging his shoulders to try and cover his ears as he began to peel the tape from his hand.

He heard a crash over the painful squeal of a door hinge.

“Sherlock!”

John again, he gathered, though his eyes were tightly shut.

There were hands over his arms, holding them down firmly. He couldn’t seem to fight them off.

“John,” he shouted, or tried to. His mouth was lined with sandpaper and stuffed with cotton wool, he was sure. Someone put the peg back on his finger. The beeps separated again, though they’d sped up considerably.

“I’m right here,” John said calmly, and Sherlock felt warm fingers sweep some hair from his forehead. “Open your eyes.”

Sherlock did, but everything was fuzzy. He closed them again. “John.”

John murmured something Sherlock didn’t quite catch, but the hands disappeared. Sherlock’s went straight back to the peg.

“No, no,” John warned, putting his hand over Sherlock’s and easing it away again. “Leave that there. Please.”

Sherlock gave in and went limp in the bed. “D’n feel well.”

“I know.” The hand was stroking his head again. “Go back to sleep. I’ve got you.”

“Th’sty,” Sherlock grunted, turning his head to John’s voice.

John leant down and kissed his head softly. Sherlock liked the warm breath that brushed his hairline.

“Go to sleep,” John murmured.

Sherlock did.

 

* * *

 

The next time Sherlock woke up he felt much better. His head was still hurting and his mouth was even worse than before, but, in truth, he couldn’t tell. The only thing he remembered was the fact that he’d woken up at all, and even that felt like a dream.

“Morning, lazy bones,” John said softly. There was a smile in his voice.

Sherlock blinked his eyes open, rubbing one with his non-pegged hand as he grunted.

“Feeling okay now?” John asked, and he sat forwards on his plastic hospital chair. “Do you know where you are?”

“Hospital,” Sherlock said with a frown. He turned his head to the side John wasn’t on, seeing a heart monitor and a drip. He looked down at his left hand; cannula, pulse oximeter. That would be the irritating beeping, then. He looked back up at John. “Why?”

John sighed softly. “Someone took you on Saturday night. From the flat, I mean. Stormed the flat, shot me a tranquiliser. The last thing I saw was a big guy carrying you out over his shoulder.”

“Saturday night?” Sherlock repeated, thinking. Saturday, tranquiliser… Ah, of course. Full moon. “What day is it today?”

“Thursday,” John supplied before he saw the look on John’s face. “Oh, no, don’t worry. I called Greg as soon as I could, and he got the CCTV. We found you on…” He thought for a second. “They got you on Saturday night and we found you on Monday night. You were in pretty bad shape. Do you not remember anything?”

Sherlock tried to think harder, but his head wouldn’t cooperate. He shook it.

“I suppose I’m not surprised. They’d taken you to some warehouse in Camden, but… I—well. You were tied to a chair with a great gash down your chest, but the bastards were long gone. Shirt and coat on the floor, too, so for the day you were just sat there you’d gone and gotten yourself hypothermia.” John’s voice was light, but his face said otherwise. He’d been worried. Sherlock could see it in the creases between his eyebrows and the strength in the grip his hand had taken on Sherlock’s.

Sherlock wasn’t at all surprised about the hypothermia; it was October, after all, and he’d been left with an extremely lowered heart rate and no extra layers for about forty-eight hours. He was surprised he was still alive, factoring in the blood loss he must have suffered.

“I didn’t fight at all?” he asked, trying to keep things moving. John had an awful memory, he really did. He’d missed so many things. Sherlock needed information. He looked down at his wrists, but aside from some red rope marks there were no signs of a struggle.

John shook his head. “Don’t think so. It didn’t look like it, either. The doctors reckon there was enough of that sedative in your system to take down a small pony, so they must have given you another lot before they left to make sure you wouldn’t go anywhere.”

Sherlock was quiet for a moment. By rights, that much at any one time should have killed him, so John must have meant in total. Now there were the more pressing things to consider.

“Who were they?” he asked, turning back to John. John shrugged. “You don’t remember, or you didn’t see them, or you don’t know them?”

“I don’t remember their faces, Sherlock. Tranquiliser, remember?” John cocked an eyebrow. He put his elbow on the bed and rested his chin in his free hand, the other still holding Sherlock’s. His thumb stroked the back of Sherlock’s hand gently.

“How many were there?” Sherlock continued, forcing himself to plunder on despite the pleasant goosebumps rising over his hand.

“I don’t know, two or three? One big one, definitely, but there was at least one other person with him.

“And they just left me there? Didn’t kill me?”

“In all fairness, they probably thought you were dead already. That much sedative would kill anyone with less drug resistance than you.”

Oh. John had a point there.

“What about my chest? How deep was the cut? What did it look like?”

“Sherlock, would you calm down? Not only have you been unconscious for about a week, but three days ago you were hypothermic. Slow down a bit.” John squeezed his hand and sat up again. “Are you hungry? Still thirsty?”

Well, he was now he’d been reminded of it.

“This first,” he said firmly, carrying on. “My chest, what does it look like?”

“I don’t know, Sherlock. I didn’t exactly go ‘Oh, fantastic, Sherlock’s chest has been ripped open!’ and pull out a bloody _magnifying glass_ like _some_ people!”

“Ripped? Was it a tear or a cut?” Sherlock, ever determined, deleted all of the unnecessary parts of the reply.

“Jesus. No, it… From what I saw, it looked more like a cut, but it… I don’t know. It was weird. There was a clean cut all the way down, but the flesh at the bottom looked torn. Like a knife, but then, then something else.” John tried his best to explain, clearly, but he looked flustered. Interesting.

“I see,” he said thoughtfully, looking down at his chest. He flicked the peg on his left hand off again and hooked a finger into the collar of his (rather unflattering) hospital gown, looking down at the bandages. He couldn’t see any blood; they must have changed them recently.

“Sherlock,” John scolded, getting up and picking the pulse oximeter up again. “You have to keep this on. The drugs are still in your system, both the dodgy one and the hospital one, and we need to know your heart’s alright.”

“It’s fine, John,” Sherlock said, batting away John’s attempts at clipping it back on. “You’ll be watching for a heart attack.”

“It doesn’t work like that,” John insisted, pegging it to Sherlock’s ear. Sherlock landed a swift smack to the side of his own head, knocking the peg off. John chuckled at him, but made no move to pick it up again. “I’m going to go and tell the doctor you’re awake again. Don’t pull out your IV this time.”

“What?” Sherlock frowned at John. Oh. Oh, wait. “Hold on.”

John crossed his arms from the doorway, smirking. Waiting.

“Wait. Did I—” Sherlock cut himself off. He swallowed. “Did I wake up yesterday?”

“Yes,” came the immediate reply. “Yes, you did.”

“And I… I wasn’t feeling well,” he remembered.

“No, not exactly.” John’s smirk was maddening.

“Oh, go away,” Sherlock muttered, turning onto his side with his back to John. His chest didn’t hurt at all, so God knows what pain medication they had him on. It was no wonder he was already so tired.

John laughed softly as he left the room to fetch some doctors, and Sherlock closed his eyes as the door swung shut.

He was starving, he was dehydrated, and he had a bloody catheter distracting him from his thoughts, but he had to at least try and remember what had happened. It had to be someone from a case he’d solved, or an enemy he’d made. Someone, anyone.

Nobody came to mind. Before he’d so much as had time to huff in frustration, he’d fallen asleep again. His own natural sleep as opposed to a sedated one, this time, but not as pleasant as he’d expected it to be. His sleep was fitful and ridden with nightmares. The only part he ever remembered was the huge, sharp teeth.


	2. Chapter 2

They kept Sherlock in for just one more day to be sure the drugs had worked themselves out, and he didn’t seem to have any lasting damage.  Sherlock had been in complete disagreement as to the use of the extra day, because he really had felt fine, but he decided that maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea if they’d keep him on that pain relief for the night. His head really had been hurting something awful. Their doctor friend had told them it was an effect of the excess of drugs he’d been dosed with, but Sherlock didn’t really care. He’d just wanted it gone.

John remained unsure as to how Sherlock had gotten him to agree to wear the pulse oximeter in his place.

Sherlock happily drifted into a medication-induced sleep for the rest of the night. It left him groggy and disoriented when he woke up, but it meant his sleeping schedule was back on track. Stupid hospitals. They ruined everything.

The next morning, John encouraged Sherlock to get up and move around. Or, rather, he tried to.

“If you’re so keen on getting out of here, prove to me that you’re fit enough. Stand up.”

“You must be joking,” Sherlock spat, diverting his attention to the window with a derogatory grimace.

“I’m sorry?” John said, looking amused. “I thought I just heard you say ‘Yes, John, I’d love to stay in hospital for another day. The food here is wonderful and I couldn’t imagine having more to do.’”

“I’m not getting up without my clothes,” Sherlock growled, crossing his arms. Unfortunately, the cannula had been taken out. He supposed it was for the best that he didn’t get any more of that pain relief, given his past, but it would have been nice.

“Well, you’ll need to get up at some point. You’ll need the toilet, at least. I’m not going back for them now.”

“You shouldn’t have forgotten them in the first place,” Sherlock said accusingly.

“Oh, come on. I haven’t slept in a week for worrying about you, you bastard. It was the first full night I’d gotten since you’d been taken. You can’t blame me.” John rolled his eyes and wandered around the bed, still waiting for Sherlock to stand up. “Why can’t you just call Mycroft? I’m not going all the way back home, not now.”

Sherlock shot a look at John. “You really think Mycroft would be willing to interrupt his own working day to pick up some clothes for his little brother? _Again?”_

“The first time doesn’t count. He didn’t pick those clothes up, he just made you wear them.” John had to rely very much on technicalities when arguing with Sherlock, he noticed.

“My point stands,” Sherlock concluded. “Go and get my suit.”

“Get out of bed.”

“Not until you get my suit.”

“Why would I get your suit if you haven’t shown me you can even dress yourself in it?”

Sherlock threw an empty water bottle and a sulk at John.

John went to get Sherlock’s suit.

They were home in time for a delicious-smelling dinner left on the dining table by Mrs Hudson, and it was still steaming. Sherlock’s mouth was watering but John kept shoving him towards their bedroom, stuck in his doctor mindset and not willing to have Sherlock prancing around for anything.

“Get in there and stay in there,” John ordered, pointing at the bed firmly until Sherlock sat on it with a grumpy huff.

“It still isn’t hurting, John,” Sherlock said mockingly. “They gave me a top-up of whatever pain relief that was before we left. I feel _fantastic.”_

“I don’t give even the tiniest shit, I’m afraid. I won’t let you rip your stitches, so shut up and put your pyjamas on, _my darling,”_ John threw over his shoulder on the way out.

Sherlock stomped over to his wardrobe to get his pyjamas, but he got distracted while he was changing. He was just about to pull his top over his head when he caught sight of himself in the mirror, bandaged chest and all. Surely he could have a look at his own scar. He’d wrap it back up afterwards, he just wanted a look.

“Hey!” John shouted, blundering in with a tray of food just as Sherlock had found the link in the bandage. He slapped the hands away. “Stop it and put your clothes on, you tit. I’ll take them off for you before your shower tomorrow morning, alright?”

Sherlock grunted his response and put his shirt on.

“Here,” John said, much more softly. He put his tray on the bed and took Sherlock’s hands in his. His thumbs began stroking the backs of Sherlock’s hands again. He sighed quietly. “Look, I know you feel better. I’m pleased, I really am, but it would mean a lot to me if you’d give yourself a chance to recover properly.”

Sherlock dropped his head so he could rest his forehead against John’s. “I’ve been in hospital for four days, John. I’d say being awake and without hypothermia marks a very good recovery on my part, wouldn’t you?”

“I wish I could say yes, but you’re burning up,” John pointed out, pulling his head away and resting the back of his hand against Sherlock’s forehead.

Sherlock had noticed that John wasn’t as hot as usual, actually. “I feel fine,” he reiterated.

“Just one day, then,” John negotiated, walking Sherlock backwards to the bed. “Stay until tomorrow evening, and if you still feel good then you can sleep for one more night, just to please me, and I’ll let you go. That okay?”

Sherlock huffed and flopped onto the bed, but only because he was starving hungry. “Yes.”

John beamed at him. “Good,” he said, bending and planting a kiss on Sherlock’s forehead. Then he gestured towards the tray. “That’s for you. I’ll go and get mine.”

Sherlock pounced on his plate, digging in immediately, and John chuckled when he walked in on it.

“Wish you were always like this fresh out of hospital,” John murmured, sitting on the bed next to him and tucking into his own plate. “There’s a bit more if you’re still hungry after that.”

Sherlock appeared to ignore him entirely, but John trusted that he’d heard. It was good to see him eating so much; he’d be sure to tell Mrs Hudson how much her gesture had been appreciated.

Just a minute later, Sherlock thrust his empty plate under John’s nose. “More,” he demanded, sucking on his fork.

“Um. Wow. Okay.” John raised an eyebrow and put his own plate and cutlery down, taking Sherlock’s away to the kitchen.

Sherlock couldn’t help himself.

John returned to the sight of Sherlock finishing off his food. “Sherlock!” John whined, dropping his face into his one free hand.

“You took ages,” Sherlock accused, sitting back against the headboard. “Besides, I’m full now. You can eat that.” He pointed his fork at the plate John was holding.

“Twat,” John muttered, sitting back down to eat while he could.

Sherlock took a deep breath and let his eyes slide closed. It was still early, and he was nowhere near tired, but he was comfortable. So comfortable. He was perfectly full, perfectly warm, and John’s scent lingered in the air all around him.

“Come here,” he said softly, putting an arm out for John. His eyes stayed closed, but after a second he felt the mattress dip and a solid warmth settle against his side. He turned and kissed the top of John’s head softly. “I love you.”

John paused his chewing for a moment. “I love you, too,” he replied, looking up at Sherlock. His eyes were still closed. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Sherlock smiled slightly, opening his eyes. “Absolutely nothing.”

John had to smile back. “Good. Shut up, then.”

Sherlock chuckled quietly, deep in his chest. He felt John shiver happily next to him; he knew John loved that laugh, though he didn’t, for the life of him, know why.

The inactivity had a profound effect on Sherlock, and just as John finished eating he started awake. John grinned.

“Just go to sleep,” he said softly, patting Sherlock’s thigh. “I don’t mind.”

“I’m not tired,” Sherlock answered, swallowing a yawn. The days of laziness _had_ made him tired, but never in his life had he uttered the words ‘I’m tired’, and he didn’t plan on breaking that streak any time soon.

“Of course you aren’t,” John said, giving Sherlock’s thigh another pat. “I’ll just sit here in silence and stay very still for a few minutes, shall I?”

“If you would,” Sherlock murmured, eyes already closing again. He felt a gentle shiver of laughter go through John. Thinking about it, being snuggled up to John in bed wasn’t exactly the best idea if he had a rising temperature, but he didn’t care. Until he started to feel something negative that wasn’t just a headache, he’d stay where he was, thank you very much.

With the cosy warmth of their embrace and some help from the painkillers still in his system, Sherlock dropped off to sleep in next to no time, leaving John to stroke his hand and be alone with his thoughts.

_It was blood and rage there were teeth and claws and it was trapped but he was close, he was too close, he couldn’t get away, it was on top of him and it couldn’t get him but it was so close, right in his face, blood and rage and all those teeth—_

“Sherlock!”

Sherlock jolted awake with a gasp and a sweaty back. He looked around until he caught John’s eye, which was looking down at him with intense concern. He looked wide awake; probably hadn’t even fallen asleep before it started.

“John?” he asked, wiping a hand over his damp forehead and pushing himself to sit up. He wasn’t sure how he managed it, seeing as his arms were strings of shaking jelly.

“You’ve never had nightmares before,” John said softly, pulling Sherlock into a hug and kissing his head. “Not that I’ve heard of.”

Sherlock let John comfort him and let himself hold onto John’s top, feeling his warmth. “Since I woke up,” he answered. “I keep dreaming the same thing.”

“I understand,” John nodded, kissing his head again and beginning to rub his back softly. “Happens to me, too. You know that.”

“No, John,” Sherlock muttered. “It’s not—I’m not remembering flashes of what happened or anything so ridiculous. I was sedated.”

“Well, I know, but sometimes the subconscious can—”

“No, John, it’s not that.”

“Then what?” John asked, squeezing Sherlock tighter. Even Sherlock could read what he meant: _You can tell me._

Still, Sherlock hesitated.

“I’m dreaming of a wolf.”


	3. Chapter 3

The next morning marked a week since Sherlock’s abduction, give or take twelve hours. It had still been dark when John had woken him from his nightmare, and instead of letting their talk bloom into the lengthy and emotional conversation that John knew it would, he’d stroked Sherlock’s hair and soothed him back to sleep. He stayed tossing and turning throughout the night, and it meant that John didn’t really get any comfortable sleep either, but Sherlock didn’t wake him up again. Something must have worked at least a little bit.

Sherlock, despite (or perhaps because of) his struggles sleeping, still seemed to sleep for longer than John. When he woke up, head feeling much better if bunged up from the night’s events, it was to an empty bed. Then he checked the clock; 11:19AM.

He bolted upright immediately, outraged at himself for sleeping for so long. He didn’t think he’d ever slept so much in his life as he had in the last week, and still he’d slept for about fourteen hours? Ridiculous.

“John?” he called, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. His stomach growled loudly when he got up.

John caught him in the doorway to their bedroom. “Right here,” he smiled, lifting his head and pecking Sherlock sweetly on the cheek. He looked far too smug for his own good. “You agreed to stay out of action for one more day.”

“Did I?” he frowned. It didn’t sound like him. “That was stupid of me.”

“It was, quite, wasn’t it? You may or may not have been heavily medicated at the time.” John grinned and started pushing Sherlock back into the bedroom.

“Then it shouldn’t count,” Sherlock decided, trying to push John back or at least get him away. John stayed where he was.

“Unfortunately for you, it does. Now, back to bed, my little cherry pie,” he sang, swinging Sherlock’s hands in his.

“Stop it,” Sherlock grumbled, snatching his hands away and turning around.

Behind him, John smirked victoriously. If there was one thing that would drive Sherlock in the opposite direction, it was painfully sweet nicknames. He heard Sherlock’s stomach gurgle the next time.

“Hungry?” he asked, leaning against the doorframe as Sherlock reluctantly flopped back into bed.

“Starving,” Sherlock whined. He covered his face with his hands and somehow, even without his arms, managed to take up the whole bed. “Make me something.”

“Well, I was going to, but since you didn’t say please,” John teased with a smile. Sherlock took his hands from his face to glare at John. “I’m kidding. What do you want?”

“I don’t know. I don’t care. Anything.”

“Holding you to that,” John murmured as he disappeared into the kitchen.

“And a cup of tea,” Sherlock shouted after him.

“Yes, your majesty!”

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitched up into a smile. Then he found himself at a bit of a loss.

What was he supposed to do while John was gone? Sit there and look pretty? He’d already had a ridiculous amount of sleep, and all of the drugs were out of his system. Probably.

That ground everything in Sherlock’s mind to a halt. All the drugs would have been long gone by that point. Why didn’t his chest hurt?

If the wound had been half as bad as he’d expected it had been (John would be damned forever for not getting a picture) then the painkillers would only have provided temporary relief. Surely he’d still have been in excruciating pain every time he moved his upper half from a wound so deep is cut right into his flesh and had space to tear, too.

He sat up, and didn’t feel any pain. He ran his hands down his front, scratched down the centre of his chest, did some twists to either side, but didn’t even get so much as a twinge. Without a second thought, he pulled off his shirt and scratched around until he felt the end of the bandage. He should have realised sooner. He should have spotted it sooner.

It took two frustrating minutes to unwind the full roll of bandages, and he didn’t bother winding them back into the roll they’d probably come from. He left them dropped in a messy pile by the bed as he stood up and looked in the mirror, staring at his own chest in confused wonder; his wound had healed.

There weren’t even any stitches in it, it was just a bright red scar going straight down the centre of his chest, from about the level of his nipples to the bottom of his rib cage. In years to come it would turn white, most likely, but he knew the angry red would stay for a while first.

He had to admit, it was a very neat line. There were some wobbles, but it looked exactly as John had described the wound to be: clean cut. Clean cut, so a straight line, meaning the wobbles were the work of the surgeon. He frowned. It would have been completely straight if John had done it.

“My God, Sherlock,” John sighed, coming in with another tray of food. This time it was a toasted cheese and ham sandwich and a glass of juice. “I told you I’d take them off when you shower. All you had to do was eat and then I’d have done it for you.”

“John, why aren’t there stitches in it?” Sherlock asked, ignoring John’s protests entirely.

“What?” John shook his head, exasperated. He came in and put the tray on Sherlock’s bedside table.

“The stitching, where is it? Why aren’t there stitches in it?” He turned around and ran his finger down the mark again for emphasis.

John smacked his hand away. “Be careful, it’s only just healed. It’ll hurt.”

“It doesn’t. Where are the stitches?”

“They took them out, Sherlock.” John frowned. “Why? What’s wrong?”

“When did they take them out?” Sherlock turned back to the mirror, staring at his new scar. He tried to count the days. Didn’t it usually take ten days to get wounds healed enough for stitches to be removed?

“The afternoon after you woke up the first time they changed your bandages,” John explained. He was clearly concerned, speaking softly and slowly. “They decided your chest had done well enough on its own after those few days, so they took the stitches out and covered it again to keep it healing.”

“On its own? How?” Sherlock demanded.

“I don’t know, Sherlock, I’m not psychic. At a guess, I’d say the sleeping helped. You were under for a long time. They also managed to catch it before infection. It had been kept covered, so it was clean, and they changed the bandages regularly, so it was washed often. They had you on a lot of drugs designed specifically to get you better. Lots of reasons. You were in _hospital.”_

Sherlock knew John had a point. Still, it was odd that he’d never felt the pain. In the hospital he’d assumed he’d been on too much medication, but now he wasn’t sure.

“Okay,” he said, giving in. He picked his top up and, with one last look at his scar, pulled it over his head again.

“We should put those bandages back on,” John advised.

Sherlock shook his head. “Unnecessary. It’s already healed.”

John sighed, but nodded his agreement. Then he handed Sherlock the tray. “Here. Don’t spill the juice.”

Sherlock grabbed one half and tucked in ravenously, much to John’s pleasure. He knew John liked it when he ate his food enthusiastically, but usually he couldn’t muster the will for eating food. Today, however, he was far too hungry to hide his joy at eating.

“God, I should send you to hospital more often. You eat more, you sleep more. Fantastic.” John grinned at him and then got up again. “I’m just going to call Lestrade. He was going to see if he could get any ID on the guys that did this. I’ve left your laptop on that desk for you when you’re finished.”

John gestured at the desk in the corner of the room and slipped out with a toss of his phone between his hands. Sherlock didn’t really notice, mouth welded to the sandwich in front of him. He devoured the whole thing and was hungry enough for a second, but his laptop was calling him. He had some research of his own to do.

After wiping his fingers clean (because he had a zero-tolerance policy for greasy keys) he retrieved his computer and sat back to do some hacking.

Ten minutes later, his phone buzzed with a text.

_Stop it. MH_

Working. SH

_Your work is disrupting my work. MH_

Your work is boring. SH

_You’re an oversized child. What do you want? MH_

Need the CCTV footage for the last full moon. SH

The next response never came, but Sherlock hadn’t expected it to. He knew Mycroft was aware of what had happened – hell, he had enough sources for it – and so he knew his brother would assist him in whatever way that wouldn’t seem like he was assisting him he could in finding his attackers.

Two minutes later, Sherlock received an email from his brother with several CCTV shots attached, depicting various angles of a van, faces, and the root they’d taken. They seemed to drop off the radar once they’d exited Westminster.

When John returned a few minutes after that, he found Sherlock typing furiously.

“Um,” he began, getting no response from Sherlock. Which was unsurprising, really. “Lestrade says he couldn’t get a match on any of the faces. They’re new.”

“Obviously,” Sherlock muttered. Then he turned his laptop, presenting John with a screen of middle-aged white men. “Do you recognise any of these people? Public transport, friends, friends of friends, anyone?”

John took a second to look them over and eventually shook his head. “Not really. Who are they?”

“Facial matches,” Sherlock mumbled, clearly expecting John to understand. John didn’t, really, but he let it slide as Sherlock kept talking. “They’re the only people I’ve ever met who look anything like our goons, and none of them are right. They’re all too short, or too fat, or have too much hair. I don’t remember any of them, must have deleted them.”

Sherlock growled in frustration and scrubbed at his hair. “I suppose this makes it much better, really.”

“How?” John settled behind him and wrapped his waist in a loose hug.

“This means they’re something new.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THERE IS A SMUT AT THE END OF THIS CHAPTER.  
> This is the first I've published. I'm praying that nobody I know will ever find it. Feel free to skip it if you want, it'll be separated by the usual line break thing.  
> 

Later that afternoon, just as the sun was beginning to set, John finished unpacking the few essentials he’d popped out to buy and then slipped into his and Sherlock’s room with a cup of tea for him.

“When’s dinner?” Sherlock asked as soon as the door opened.

“Give us a chance. I only just got around to making tea.” John set the mug on Sherlock’s bedside table and stood over him, watching him scroll through two-year-old posts on his website. “What are you doing?”

“Trying to find our man,” Sherlock murmured, making an effort to sound as annoyed as possible at the interruption.

“Past client?” John frowned, crossing his arms. It wasn’t in his nature to let Sherlock manipulate him into going away.

“Perhaps.” Sherlock took a second to flex his fingers before he carried on with his scrolling. “I’ve already looked through them, but it’s the best lead we’ve got. That is, the best lead discounting the fact that they know about you and had probably been watching us for a while to know what time to come up.”

“Comforting, hm?” John asked. He stepped closer and draped his arm over Sherlock’s shoulders, stroking his back gently.

Sherlock gave a noncommittal grunt in response.

A moment later he glanced up at John, who was still watching silently. He continued trying to work for another few seconds before he was forced to accept that he wasn’t going to get anywhere with John hovering like that.

“Say it,” Sherlock ordered, waving a hand. Both were still as they hovered over the keys; John had Sherlock’s (almost) undivided attention. “I can see you have something to say. Spit it out.”

John sighed, long and slow. He paid some more attention to Sherlock’s shoulder blades. “Your nightmares.”

“Yes?” Sherlock asked snappishly.

John paused again and wondered how best to phrase his point. “What does it look like?”

Sherlock, of course, caught onto John’s implications even before he’d even made any.

“It’s not you,” he said. His hands finally retreated from the keyboard entirely and he turned to look up at John. “It’s definitely not you, John.”

“How do you know?” John argued, sinking onto the bed beside Sherlock. He tipped forwards and rested his forehead on Sherlock’s shoulder, winding his arms around his waist in a loose hug.

“Trust me,” Sherlock muttered, covering John’s hands with his own as a little sign of affection while his gaze returned to his laptop screen.

“People forget dreams,” John pointed out. He kissed Sherlock’s shoulder. “You must be remembering wrong.”

Sherlock frowned, offended, at his laptop. “I don’t do anything wrong,” he muttered, and gave John’s hand a scolding hit under his own. “This one is bigger than you.”

“Dreams exaggerate, too,” John mentioned.

“Would you shut up for a moment and let me explain?”

John hesitated. Then he squeezed Sherlock’s waist in the hug. “Sorry.”

“Right. This one’s much bigger, and it’s not the right colour. Granted, it’s similar, but the fur’s a richer blonde and the eyes were too pale.”

“Are you sure?” John couldn’t help but ask. He stretched his fingers and linked them with Sherlock’s. Then he lifted his head to rest his chin on the bony shoulder.

“I’m sure, John. Calm down.” Sherlock gave his hands a squeeze and then tried to disentangle himself from John so he could return to his laptop. “And go and get me some dinner. You’re like a limpet.”

John snorted. He paused for one more second and then planted a big, wet kiss on Sherlock’s cheek, much to Sherlock’s horror.

“John!” he scolded, shying away. He wiped his cheek on the sleeve of his dressing gown.

John just chuckled as he stood up and made his way to the door. “I love you, too,” he called in answer to the scowl he could feel burning the back of his head.

Sherlock grumbled to himself about interruptions and wasted time and stupid John.  In the end, his search turned up no candidates. Plenty of motives, certainly, but he couldn’t see any that would have any current means of getting to either he or John, and none of them had the face that their goons had. He had to conclude that they’d been hired specifically for the job. Which, unfortunately, also meant that their attacker still had no face.

“Food!”

“Bring it in here,” Sherlock replied. He flopped backwards to lie down on the bed, rubbing his face.

“Nope. Come and get it if you want it so bad.”

“Mm, I’ve heard that before,” he muttered to himself, but he dragged himself up anyway. “Never thought I’d be punished for wanting to eat.”

“Punished?” John cocked an eyebrow. Two plates of ham, egg, and chips were set on the kitchen table. A bowl of beans and a serving spoon were between them. “Shut up and get some cutlery.”

“Honestly, John. You’re so lazy.” Sherlock grabbed a handful of forks from the drawer. “Couldn’t get the cutlery yourself for once?”

“You’re right. All I’ve done today is cook all the food, do all the washing, clear out the fridge, hoover the living room, and clean the bathroom. Have you taken any pills today?”

“No. Did you do all of that by choice?” Sherlock threw the forks onto the table.

“For God’s sake, Sherlock, we’re not holding a dinner party. We only need two. Put the rest back.” John waved a tea towel at the pile of forks from where he was putting the extra food on a third plate. “And yes, by choice. We’ve been out for a week. Things got dusty.”

“You can hardly blame me for that,” Sherlock muttered, sitting at the table without putting the forks away.  
John put the forks away. “I’m not blaming you for anything. I think we should have a bottle of wine.”

“Get red,” Sherlock said, pointing at him with the fork he’d kept.

“I was going to.”

Sherlock smiled faintly and started serving himself some beans.

Five minutes later they were sat next to each other at the table with half a bottle of wine already shared between them and half of Sherlock’s food already gone.

“Why are you so hungry recently?” John asked, staring at Sherlock’s plate.

Sherlock paused, seeming to only just realise how much he’d eaten. He swallowed his mouthful. “Um,” he began eloquently.

“It’s good,” John smiled, bumping him with his shoulder. “I’m pleased.”

Sherlock wasn’t sure that he was, but he was starving and he had no cases. He smiled back to be polite and kept at his food.

“Still thin as a stick, though,” John muttered teasingly.

“I can’t help being naturally stunning.”

“Wanker.”

 

* * *

 

 _“Fuck_. Yes… Faster. Faster, John.”

Sherlock was thoroughly pleased with John’s latest no-nightmares plan for Sherlock.

“I can’t, Sherlock. Just— _Jesus—_ stop complaining.”

It mainly involved John attempting to send Sherlock to sleep in such a blissfully comatose state that he wouldn’t be able to see anything scary through the haze. Whatever the results, Sherlock had already decided to say that it had worked. Maybe John would let him have him every night as a result.

“Not complaining,” Sherlock replied with a quiet moan. He paused. “Complaining a little.”

“Shut up,” John snapped, pinching Sherlock’s nipple and getting a delicious whine in response.

As much as Sherlock loved seeing John ride himself to orgasm, they hadn’t had sex in approximately a week and a half and he was determined to make up for it in every way possible.

“Swap,” he breathed, holding John’s hips still against his lap. “Swap places. You, against the headboard. Now.”

They were both hit by disappointment when John pulled away, but it was only a few seconds before John was hanging onto the headboard of the bed and Sherlock had situated himself behind him. He had his nose pressed to the nape of John’s neck, breathing hard, snuffling into his hairline, because _Christ,_ he could smell him and it was wonderful.

 _“This,”_ he murmured by John’s ear, “this is shagging. This, right here.”

He had one hand splayed over John’s chest, holding him into place, and the other guiding his cock back into John. After a few experimental thrusts to get his angle right (which just so happened to leave John a whimpering mess squished against the headboard) he started his own pace.

“Oh,” John cried, his knuckles turning white as they gripped. “Oh, _Sherlock!”_

Sherlock couldn’t reply. He didn’t have it in him, not while he was finally pounding into John at the brutal pace he’d been craving. He groaned under his breath, head thrown back in ecstasy as he felt warmth curl in his groin. It was always so much better when he got John’s prostate, and John was forever envious of his ability to find and keep the angle so well when he wanted to.

“Oh, God, Jesus. Fuck, yes, yes, Sherlock, _please,”_ John whined. “Please, I’m so close. Can you—will you—Ah!”

Sherlock’s free hand slid around and started pumping John’s cock, using his thrusts to push him through the gap in his fist. The combined stimulation had John coming in seconds, painting the pale blue pillows white with his seed. Sherlock cried out not soon after, the fluttering and clenching of John’s muscles around him more than enough to tip him over the edge. John shivered and moaned softly when he felt Sherlock spill inside him.

Sherlock went still, flopped limp over his back. John could just tell he was staking his claim in staying there, because he could feel come begin to dribble around where Sherlock was going flaccid.

John nodded, breathless. “You’re right.”

“What?” Sherlock kissed his shoulder and rubbed his chest, moving his hips just until he managed to dislodge himself.

“Your way was better than mine,” John commented, a lazy smile blooming on his face.

Sherlock laughed. “Told you so.”

He held John against him and pulled him back so he could lay them down. With one hand, he reached out and grabbed some tissues. John rolled over to face him and accepted the handful he was given, wiping high and low until they were at least partially decent. Lord alive, he hadn’t felt this good in weeks.

Sherlock, however, didn’t seem happy with the arrangement. He chucked the tissues across the room and pushed John until he rolled over again. John wasn’t sure what he’d  been expecting, but he kicked himself for not guessing when Sherlock shuffled up to his back, wrapped all four of his limbs around him, and placed his hand half over John’s heart and half over his scar.

He could hear John’s heart, beating in time to the pulse under his palm. He could hear the faint but solid beat of John, raging with the leftover lust and energy that sex had left behind. He could smell the sex on him, taste it on the tip of his tongue when he kissed John’s neck. It was a sensory overload and it was the best thing that had ever happened to him.

“You just try and sleep badly after that,” John murmured, kissing Sherlock’s forearm.

Sherlock offered a faint snort of laughter in return, relaxed and happy and entirely satisfied.

The nightmares still didn’t stop.


	5. Chapter 5

The next morning brought a case along with the sunrise. Sherlock had been awake for a while, but had decided to be kind and stay in bed so he wouldn’t disturb John’s sleep. Well, that and he couldn’t get out. John’s stiflingly hot octopus cuddle had him trapped under far too many limbs, but he didn’t try and go back to sleep. He didn’t want to, not tonight, not when morning was so close and he’d been suffering all week already.

He’d hung on until the sun rose and promised himself he’d get up when it was well and truly morning. That way, John wouldn’t be able to complain at him for waking him too early. Today was the day he was allowed to get up, maybe even go out if John was feeling kind.

Then his phone went off.

Sherlock’s head snapped to the side, but he couldn’t see his bedside table over the pillow. He stretched out one long arm, flailing around for his phone. Couldn’t reach. He grunted in frustration, shuffled over a bit, and tried again – success. And it was Lestrade, too; the world was in a good mood today.

_Suspected murder at Hallam Court, 77 Hallam Street. Interested? GL_

Which flat? SH

_Will show when you get here. GL_

Which flat? SH

_Guess. GL_

You’re hilarious. Fine. I’ll be there in an hour. SH

“John,” Sherlock snapped, kicking one of his legs. “John, wake up, we’re going out.”

“What?” John whined, face twisting into a sleepy frown.

“Lestrade texted. There’s a case. Get off.”

John stretched and curled tighter around Sherlock, shaking his head.

“John,” Sherlock said more firmly, trying to peel off his arms. John made up for it with his legs and replaced them every time he let go. “Stop being so immature, I want to go out.”

John laughed softly, opening his eye a crack so he could laugh more openly at Sherlock. “Do you realise you were almost torn in two last week?”

“Yes, and when it happened to you you were up and running in a few days.”

John snorted and sighed. “Jesus. Fine, you go. M’staying here.”

“No, you’re not,” Sherlock said easily, wrapping his arms around John and pulling him up as he stood. “I need you.”

“Ha-ha,” John scowled, shoving Sherlock away. He rubbed his eyes. “It’s fine, Sherlock, just go.”

“No, John, I need you. Suspected murder. You’re good at these.” Sherlock tried to sound as convincing as he could, but he’d always had difficulties with making praise for others sound authentic.

“Dick,” John laughed, but he stood up. “Go and shower, you stink of sex. I’ll get dressed.”

Sherlock beamed at him, and John hardly had time to roll his eyes before he’d slammed the bathroom door shut behind him.

They reached Hallam Street in an hour and a half, and Sherlock had been vibrating with excitement the whole time.

“You’re smiling again,” John warned him, squeezing his hand as they pulled up outside the block of flats.

“I won’t apologise,” Sherlock murmured in reply. He did try and dampen his glee slightly by biting the insides of his lips, but he practically skipped over to the police tape as he left John to pay the fare.

Once he saw who Sherlock was heading for, he paid a bit faster.

“I think you’ve got the wrong address,” Sergeant Donovan warned with an empty smile, folding her arms from her position inside the boarder.

“I think you’ve got the wrong detective,” Sherlock replied, hooking a finger under the tape to let himself in. Sally stepped in front of him with a smooth sway of her hips.

“Go on, then. Show us some ID.” Her reluctant smile grew into a civil grin, entirely mocking.

Sherlock smirked and pulled out one of Lestrade’s badges. “Always a pleasure, Sergeant.”

“What the—” Sally snatched the badge from Sherlock’s hand and stepped away with an irritated scowl to announce their arrival into a walkie talkie. “Holmes is here. And tell Lestrade I’ve found what he’s looking for.”

“Actually, that’s a different one.”

John hit Sherlock’s pointing finger away from his face and pushed him ahead into the building. “You’re like prepubescent girls both fighting over the same crush,” he muttered, sniffing and pulling his jacket tighter against the biting chill of the corridor. “Lift working?”

“Probably, but I don’t know which floor we’re meant to be on.” Sherlock turned for the stairs. He made a point of ignoring John’s comment.

John snorted. “Paint’s chipped. Which floor is it?” Sherlock glared at him and got a chuckle in reply. “I’m only teasing. Cheer up, I thought you were excited.”

“That was before I knew Donovan would be here,” he corrected, stepping aside to let an officer past.

“Sherlock, she works on almost every single one of Lestrade’s cases.” John sighed, tucking his hands into his pockets.

“There’s always a chance she’ll have food poisoning,” he said hopefully. Then, under his breath: “Or an STI.”

“Sherlock!” John thumped him on the back. “Be nice.”

“Not if she doesn’t allow me the same courtesy.”

John grunted. He couldn’t argue with that.

They kept climbing until they reached the third floor, and it was obvious in a second which flat they were to be directed to. There were forensics officers swarming around, all seeming to be doing absolutely nothing in a very determined manner where they stood in the lobby, and numerous security personnel keeping the area clear of intruders.

“Third floor, then,” John muttered. Sherlock threw a scowl over his shoulder and led them straight through the fancy flat to the bedroom. It was filled with people and not at all worth looking at until they’d gone.

Sherlock gritted his teeth and took John’s hand, pulling him out into a clear area of the living room. “Too busy in there. Call him.”

“What?” John shook his head, a bit shocked from the number of investigators the case seemed to need. He sniffed and patted down his pockets, but he didn’t have a tissue on him. Couldn’t see any around, either.

“Lestrade, call him. Are you alright?” Sherlock frowned. His eyes flickered over John, concerned.

“Oh. Yeah, no, I’m fine. Nose keeps running. It’s—it’s very loud, that’s all.” John rubbed the back of his head with a faint wince. He used his other hand to pull out his phone and dial Lestrade.

Sherlock looked around the room helplessly; it was an open-plan flat, there were no doors to close or more private places to go that would be quieter. Instead he made up for it by standing between John and the crowd, determined to at least try and protect him in some way. He needed his assistant. John recognised the gesture and took Sherlock’s hand to give it a faint, grateful squeeze.

“Hi, Greg, we’re in the flat. Can’t get anywhere, the whole of Scotland Yard’s crammed in here.” He paused to listen, sniffing again. “Oh. We must have missed you. Alright, yeah, I’ll let him know. See you in a bit.”

Sherlock didn’t need telling. Lestrade had been outside – probably fetching his ID – and hadn’t cleared the people out for them yet. As usual, John had failed to question the important things, such as why there seemed to be so many people there, but that was alright. He kept hold of John’s hand and sank onto the sofa with him to await their escorting officer.

He opened his mouth to say something, but paused when John sniffed again, changing his mind. “Will you get a tissue, please?” he asked, looking offended as he stared at John’s nose.

“I can’t find any,” John shrugged. He sniffed again, deeper this time, as he looked around the room. “And it’s not just that. Can you smell that?”

Sherlock followed John’s gaze around. He didn’t see much. He sniffed deeply, but didn’t get much from that, either. John’s sharpened senses really were useful at times, he mused. “Smell what? What sort of smell?”

“I don’t know.” John shook his head. “Never mind. I think I’m getting a cold.”

Sherlock ignored him and sat forwards, staring down at the rug by their feet. He sniffed, hard. “John.”

“I’m sorry, I can’t help it. Can you see any tissues in here?”

“John,” he said more firmly. He kept staring pointedly at the corner of the rug, and gave a deliberate sniff.

John sat forwards to join him, looking at the floor in front of them. He sniffed, but this time with purpose. “What is it?”

“Can’t you smell it?” Sherlock frowned at him. This time he looked offended because of John’s nose for very different reasons.

John shrugged. “Cold, Sherlock.”

“Well, can’t you _see_ it?” he insisted, pointing at the floor. “It’s not straight.”

John blinked at their feet. “Not everyone likes their rugs straight.”

“This girl does,” Sherlock answered, standing up and turning around on the spot. “Don’t ask. Look.”

John sighed, but he stood up and followed Sherlock’s finger. Pattern of the cushions on the sofa, painting of a pot of flowers on the wall, doily under a tray of keys by the door – feminine, he gathered it to mean, but also with an attention to detail. Then Sherlock’s finger moved in the air to trace the right angle between the sofa and the armchair, the exact line-up of the middle seat on the sofa with the television set in front of it, the spines of the books on the shelves that were set in specific height order – neat. Straight.

Of course this person would have their rug straight.

“And there’s a footprint on it,” Sherlock muttered, pointing behind them.

John paused. “That’s a smear of dirt.”

“The shape of it, John. Come on,” he snapped, pointing at the curve. “Heel of a shoe. She’d never have worn shoes in this flat, it’s an expensive area and she likes things tidy.”

John paused for a second and sniffed in deeply again, but his nose was still running. “I don’t know what you’re trying to say.”

“Two minutes, everyone! Two more minutes and then move out!” Lestrade’s shouting could be heard loud and clear as he pushed his way through the doorway. “Back in later, but out in two. Got that?”

“There’s something under the sofa,” Sherlock murmured by John’s ear.

 

* * *

 

“Don’t sulk, Sherlock,” John groaned, closing the door of their flat behind them. “You’ve only been up for two hours.”

“I’ve been up for six hours, John, and that wasn’t even worth leaving the house for!” Sherlock shouted back. He threw his coat down onto the sofa and flopped on top of it, curling up with his back to the world.

“Come on, someone axed the floor in and committed suicide under it. That’s pretty good. Besides, you got to prove that you’ve got a better sense of smell than a werewolf,” John reminded him softly, but that little snippet only served to make Sherlock more anxious.


	6. Chapter 6

It was still quite early when they’d gotten home, going by John’s normal day-with-a-case standards. Sherlock had only been able to sulk for half an hour before his curiosity had gotten the better of him, and by half past ten John was walking in on him sniffing his own dirty underwear for the second time.

“Sherlock!” He swatted him over the head with a rolled up newspaper and snatched the pants away, chucking them back into the washing hamper.  “I meant it, that’s disgusting. Go and find something else to keep you occupied for a while. Why don’t you measure the rate of growth of the cactus on the windowsill?”

“Did that ages ago, John. Honestly, it’s as if you don’t pay any attention to my experiments at all.” Sherlock scowled at him and slinked back into the living room like a cat who’d been stroked the wrong way.

“Funny that,” John muttered, putting the lid back on the hamper and pushing it back into the corner of the bedroom.

Sherlock walked around the living room a few times. Then he walked around clapping every few steps. Then he stopped, ruffled his hair (John had to cover his mouth so he wouldn’t snort at the style it ended up in) and started walking the other way.

“Get your violin out,” John suggested.

“I’m busy,” came the reply as he walked over the sofa.

“Obviously,” John murmured to himself. He started looking around for some breakfast.

Sherlock looked up as if he’d had a brainwave, and then fled up the stairs to John’s old room, leaving John to stare after him with a distantly bewildered cock of his eyebrow.

“What are you doing?” he called after Sherlock, pulling out some bread to toast.

“Experiment.”

“Oh, fantastic,” John muttered bitterly. The footsteps began to circle above his head this time.

“I heard that!” Sherlock snapped, followed by a sulky door slam and a roll of John’s eyes. The footsteps stopped, and the door opened again slowly. “You _did_ say ‘fantastic’, didn’t you?”

“Yep. I’m positively overjoyed.”

Sherlock hesitated and slammed the door shut again. Two seconds later it opened again. “Stop toasting things! I’m trying to smell!”

“You stink already, my dear,” John replied with a grin, going to get the jam.

Sherlock scoffed. “How very mature of you.” The door slammed one final time, leaving John to have his breakfast in peace.

Well, until Sherlock’s phone rang from the table.

“Sherlock, phone.”

No answer. John turned in his seat to shout over his shoulder.

“Sherlock, your phone’s ringing!”

No answer again.

“I’ll get it, then, shall I?”

Silence again.

“You’re welcome!”

John put his plate down and scooped up Sherlock’s phone: Mycroft.

“Sherlock’s busy dicking around right now,” John began. “Can I take a message?”

“He’ll want to take this call, John,” Mycroft assured him. John could hear the smirk in his voice. “Pass me over.”

“I don’t know, he slammed the same door three times.” John took another bite of his toast.

“This is important. Hand me to him, please.”

John sighed, wondering if he’d ever not be irritated at the Holmes brothers. “Fine. One minute. Sherlock!”

He got up and plodded up the stairs, not bothering to knock on the door. This time Sherlock was sniffing John’s underwear.

“Jesus, Sherlock, how many times? Stop sniffing pants!” John snatched the pair and used them to slap Sherlock’s arm. Then he held out the phone. “Your brother wants to talk to you.”

“I’m busy,” Sherlock reiterated, trying to grab the underwear back.

“You’re not anymore,” John responded with a smile. “He said you’d want to take this one. Just two minutes, that’s all he wants.”

Sherlock growled at John’s obvious pleasure and took the call, watching him see himself out. “What?”

“It’s about April.” Mycroft’s voice lowered significantly.

Sherlock paused. “Do you mean April, or _April?”_

“I mean _April,_ Sherlock, what else could I mean?” Mycroft snapped.

“What about it?” Sherlock lowered his own voice and went to stand by the window. “I thought you didn’t want me involved in the April case.”

“I didn’t,” Mycroft admitted. Sherlock had bothered him about Moriarty for weeks after he’d escaped, but Mycroft had used every card in his hand to keep him away, and it had worked. He’d eventually stopped trying to get involved, swept up in the new cases and species he’d discovered.

“Then why now?” Sherlock challenged, squinting into the distance. “What’s happened?”

“We’ve won,” Mycroft said honestly. Sherlock couldn’t help but notice how distinctly not happy he sounded.

“What do you mean, ‘we’ve won’? What are you saying?”

“I’m saying he’s dead.”

Sherlock blinked, and then frowned. “Who is?”

“Who do you think?”

A slight pause as Sherlock took in the information. “And Moran?”

Mycroft hesitated. “He’s still at large. But we’re confident that he won’t be getting very far without his boss.”

Sherlock snorted. He shook his head. His brother was far more stupid than anybody knew, he was sure of it. “Really, Mycroft?”

“Really, Sherlock.” His tone hardened.

There was a long silence on the line as each brother summed the other’s implied argument up, but Sherlock wasn’t convinced.

“Let me see,” he said simply, turning on his heel.

“No.”

“Mycroft. Let me see.”

“Government property. Deal with it.” Sherlock heard Mycroft shift in his seat. _Fat git._

“So are all of the rest of the bodies I analyse, now tell me where it’s being kept.”

“Sherlock, I am not going to let you burst into a government morgue and make a scene,” Mycroft hissed.

“Make a scene? _Make_ a _scene?”_ Sherlock growled under his breath. “I’d just like to make sure that your vision isn’t impaired, dear older brother. I know you’d hate to get the wrong man.”

“Take your childish insults elsewhere, Sherlock. I’m offering you a case.”

“A case? What case is there in this?”

“If you’d let me talk for just a _minute,_ you’d know by now.”

Sherlock kept his mouth firmly closed, heartbeat fluttering with rage.

“Thank you. Now, look, it’s difficult to explain over the phone. Come to my office and I’ll give you the file. You can read as much as you like and then tell me whether or not you’d like to see,” Mycroft said evenly, his voice masked with an infuriating perfection.

“See what?” Sherlock questioned immediately. He heard Mycroft breathe.

“Come to my office, get the file, and have a look for yourself.”

Sherlock needed a moment. On one hand, he was busy today. He was trying to see how well he could smell (all of his attempts at smelling semen through a few washes had failed, sadly) because, really, he was interested. He’d smelt the body at the crime scene. John hadn’t, and, although he’d forgotten his excuse already, he hadn’t come down with a cold.

On the other hand, Sherlock very badly wanted in on the April case. He wanted to see Moriarty’s body on a slab for the position he’d put John and all of those other innocent people in. He wanted to know what the case was, if there was one.

“Fine,” he said, making his way down the stairs from John’s bedroom. “I’m on my way.”

He hung up the phone and tucked it into his pocket.

“Where are you going now?” John frowned. He was washing up. Sherlock always thought he looked rather sweet when he did the washing up in bubbly water. Then he always thought he’d better bleach his brain so he wouldn’t accidentally call him that one day.

“To find a case,” Sherlock replied, doing up his scarf and running out before John could question him further.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock stared down at the file in his lap with a blank expression.

“Where are they being kept?” he asked quietly, glancing over the first page again. It didn’t have an address.

“On a small manmade island near Margate. There’s a shuttle boat that can make the trip there and back in an hour,” Mycroft replied at the same level. He was waiting patiently at his desk, fingertips joined at his chin.

Sherlock took a moment.

“And,” he began, finally looking up at Mycroft, “what exactly is the case here?”

Mycroft took his time answering that one. “There’s a multitude for you to choose from,” he said, picking his words carefully. “Keep an open mind. Though they may not seem like your sort of case, perhaps they’re something that John would be interested in.”

Sherlock couldn’t figure out what he meant for a second, but even when he had, he wasn’t sure he figured it out right. “You want me to _help_ them?”

“That’s what you do, isn’t it?” he pointed out, raising an eyebrow.

“Not like this, Mycroft. I’m not qualified in the least to deal with these cases.” Sherlock flipped the file shut and sat back with a defiant huff.

“You’re not qualified in the least, full stop.” Mycroft smiled.  
“May I remind you that I have two degrees?” Sherlock snapped.

“Neither of which you use in your chosen career path.” Mycroft paused. “Alright, one of them, maybe. But not officially. In any case, I was going to say to ask John.”

“John? John’s not a doctor of… whatever it is these people need, Mycroft. He stitches cuts and writes prescriptions,” Sherlock argued, shaking his head.

Mycroft sighed. “He doesn’t need to be qualified to help these people,” he said softly. “He may be their only chance. We’ve tried everything else.”

“Then maybe it’s just not meant to be,” Sherlock muttered under his breath.

“What did you say?”

“I said, take me there and I’ll see.”

Mycroft smiled. “That’s more like it. I’ll pick you up tomorrow morning at ten o’clock.”

“Feel free to be late,” Sherlock muttered on his way out.

He couldn’t believe it. He didn’t understand how Mycroft had managed to keep this, an entire island filled with the most important thing that had happened all year, from him of all people. No, he wouldn’t be telling John. Definitely not. After all, John would only feel guilty for all the wrong reasons. Guilty because, thanks to Sherlock, he hadn’t gone through the same troubled transformations that they had, and guilty because he’d ended up in such a better position than they had.

Tomorrow, Sherlock was going to see the people rescued from Moriarty’s dungeons.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I was writing this chapter it accidentally turned into double the length it was supposed to be. I’ve had to split it in two, because I couldn’t face getting rid of any of the boys’ banter. e_e  
> This chapter might also be a bit confusing in that you don’t actually know what’s wrong or what it's really talking about. So, uh, bear with me. It’ll be clear in the next chapter, I hope.

“You rescued them from one prison and locked them in another,” Sherlock mused bitterly. He could see the island in the distance, the centre a white block in the middle. It stood out against the grey autumn sky.

Mycroft remained silent for a few minutes, leaving Sherlock to stare out of the window of the yacht. It amused him every time his brother denied his own heart. He laid it bare so often, in Mycroft’s eyes.

“It’s not a prison,” he said eventually, leaning back in his seat. He sipped his scotch. “It’s a rehabilitation centre.”

“That just so happens to look like a prison,” Sherlock spat, turning on his heel to glare at Mycroft. “Rehabilitation for what, exactly?”

“How so? Are there bars on the windows? Is there an electric fence keeping them in? Do you see watch towers or search lights?” Mycroft challenged, skilfully avoiding the question.

Sherlock seethed. “Not a conventional prison, perhaps, but you’re keeping them on an _island._ Isolation from society until the problem’s fixed; does that not sound like prison to you?”

“Please save all of your questions until the end of the tour, sir,” Mycroft said. His words may have sounded humorous had he not been staring at Sherlock so threateningly.

Sherlock bared his teeth for a second and then slumped into an armchair to drink his coffee. His gaze stayed levelled with the bar in the corner for the rest of the journey.

Forty minutes after they set off, they’d pulled up. Mycroft grabbed the collar of Sherlock’s coat and jerked him back when he tried to exit first, and pushed in front of him – he wasn’t going to have his little brother ruin all the hard work the team had put in. Not this time.

“Ladies first, I see,” Sherlock muttered coldly. Disappointingly, Mycroft ignored him until they reached the reception in the white cube building.

“This is a state of the art, functioning facility, Sherlock, and you _will_ behave yourself. There’s a delicate balance here that cannot be upset. Do you understand?” Mycroft turned around in the doorway to stare at him.

“I do,” Sherlock said. He smiled. “Lead the way.”

Mycroft squinted at him, and then scowled and him, and then turned around and pressed a button for the lift. Sherlock’s smile dropped immediately.

“Explain to me exactly what’s wrong with them,” Sherlock requested, glancing over the lift. Boring, no information there apart from it was barely used and someone had had a bacon sandwich in there.

“A wide variety of things, I can assure you,” Mycroft said quietly as he watched the lift doors. “You and John don’t realise how lucky he was.”

Sherlock frowned. He was sure that Mycroft had given him the answer in there somewhere, because he’d already had a lot of clues from the file he’d read. He just had to find it.

“I see,” he replied, following him from the lift.

“This building houses the better half of the residents.” Mycroft gestured down the bright corridor at the white doors. “Behind each door is a single bedroom. The one at the end is open. Have a look.”

“And by ‘the better half’, you mean,” Sherlock prompted, moving swiftly down the corridor to see the bedrooms. Fresh sheets on the bed, bedside table with a lamp, radiator, wardrobe, mirror, lighting in the ceiling, sink on the remaining wall. _No bars on the windows, maybe,_ he thought, _but triple glazing is excessive._

“The half that are the most healthy and have adjusted the best,” Mycroft clarified.

“What about bathrooms?”

“I thought it best to have shared bathrooms for safety’s sake.”

“Where is everyone now?” Sherlock pressed his ear to the closed doors – silence.

Mycroft pointed back at the lift. “Upstairs, I should hope, for rec time.”

Sherlock paused. “Are you serious?”

“Absolutely,” Mycroft frowned. “It’s hardly a place of freedom if we lock them in their rooms, Sherlock.”

“That’s what it’s called in prison,” Sherlock insisted, but Mycroft had expected that.

“It’s also what it’s called in rehabilitation centres, isn’t it?”

“Same thing,” Sherlock muttered self-consciously. He turned and headed back to the lift. “Show me the rest.”

Mycroft took him upstairs and showed him the leisure rooms. There was a TV lounge, a computer suite, a small library, even a little shop run by some residents. They stopped off at a canteen to get some lunch – or, rather, what they called lunch. Sherlock got some juice and a roll of bread and Mycroft got a rich dessert. Free of charge, of course.

“None of these people look like they should be here,” Sherlock frowned, tearing apart his roll. “I don’t understand.”

“These are some of the better residents, as I said. We’ll skip the progressing ones. After lunch, I’ll take you straight to CO, and then you’ll see exactly why we need John and what the situation is here.” Mycroft stabbed his fork into some pastry, holding Sherlock’s eye.

“What does CO stand for?” Sherlock turned his head away to scrutinise the canteen.

“Clock Observation. As in, around-the-clock.” Mycroft looked back down to his food.

Sherlock hummed doubtfully.

“It will make sense soon, Sherlock,” Mycroft said firmly through a bite of pie.

_You and John don’t realise how lucky he is._

How lucky who was? John? Why was John lucky? What did they have to do with any of this? The only thing they shared with these people was John’s experience in the dungeon, and John had said that he hadn’t seen or heard any physical or psychological abuse between captors and captives.

Sherlock hated being in the dark.

After their short lunch it was a brisk walk across the grounds until they got to a less-than-beautiful building on the other side of the island. Sherlock couldn’t stand to see all of the sports facilities and greenery around. Why hadn’t his rehab ever been like this?

Oh, yes. Because otherwise he’d never have wanted to get out. He remembered now.

Mycroft didn’t speak during the walk, likely already knowing what Sherlock was thinking about and not wanting to make him even more uncomfortable. The second building looked as new as the first, but was made up of neat brickwork and windows that clearly weren’t designed to be opened. Sherlock sent a disapproving glance at his brother that got ignored.

“It might still be unclear after this. If you can stay until sundown you’ll certainly know why these residents are still here.” Mycroft had to scan an ID card to get the lift to work in this building.

“I’ll tell John I’ll be late,” he said quietly, getting his phone out and sending a text.

This case will take longer than expected. Don’t wait up. SH

“The residential facilities here are the same as those in the first unit, but with a few more precautions. No bedside lamps, no mirrors. Shatterproof coat hangers in the wardrobes. Slides on the doors for members of staff to look in and check on them.” Mycroft gestured to each feature as he pointed it out.

“They might as well have padded walls,” Sherlock pointed out, glancing around before stepping out. “Is everyone here in recreation as well?”

“I should hope so, otherwise we’ll be in a sticky position later,” Mycroft murmured, turning back to the lift. “I’ll take you to have a look, and then we can talk in the office until nightfall.”

“God, no. I’m not staying here with you until the sun goes down,” Sherlock said, making a face.

Mycroft rolled his eyes and pressed the button for the next floor up. “Relax. The clocks have gone back. We’ll be done by eight o’clock.”

“I’m holding you to that,” Sherlock replied, checking the time on his phone. Quarter past four. “That still means I’ll be home at ten.”

“Oh, the woes of doing something useful with your life,” Mycroft said, voice dripping with venom.

“Excuse me?” Sherlock asked quietly, dangerously.

“What would you like to see first? This block has similar facilities to the last, simply with a few more safety precautions taken.”

Sherlock scoffed and frowned at Mycroft. “Whatever comes first.”

Six o’clock rolled around, and, after a two-hour guided  tour, Sherlock had seen enough. He was perched on the edge of an armchair in Mycroft’s office, and had been staring at his brother for the last few minutes in complete silence. Mycroft was simply waiting.

“Let me know when you’ve gathered your thoughts,” he said softly, opening his desk drawer and getting out a folder. “I’ll just stay here.”

Sherlock wasn’t sure whether it was worth the lecture he was building up to. Mycroft did what he wanted, he always had done, he’d just made sure to do it in a way that seemed to benefit everybody. Not only that, but Sherlock still didn’t know what was going on. It didn’t make sense – why were they keeping them here? Everyone seemed fine. _Everyone._

It was another fifteen minutes before Sherlock managed to muster the state of mind to say something. Mycroft could sense it as the time rose, and he closed his file just in time.

“I’m aware of your love of theatrics,” Sherlock began, keeping his voice steady, “but this really has taken the biscuit. You’ve built an institution for werewolves who have already recovered. Are you trying to keep them from society? Is that it? You’re locking them away because you don’t think they’re _human_ enough?”

“No,” came the answer. “That’s not it.”

“Then what is it, Mycroft? What could possibly be worth keeping them locked away here, because I can’t see anything wrong with them in the least.”

Mycroft shook his head. “You didn’t listen to me, Sherlock.”

“Oh, I listened. I listened very well. You talking utter rubbish is what I listened to.” Sherlock stood up and started pacing, staring at his feet as he thought.

Mycroft sighed. He suspected Sherlock wouldn’t care half as much if he wasn’t in the dark.

“The transition,” he said, trying to give him a bit of a clue.

“Why can’t you just tell me?” Sherlock growled.

“You wouldn’t believe me. It’s… highly rare, from what we can gather.”

Sherlock took a deep breath. “Fine.”

Mycroft looked at his watch. “Actually, it’s time to head over. Your live demonstration awaits.”


	8. Chapter 8

By the time they’d gotten back over to ‘CO’, as Mycroft had referred to it, Sherlock was jittery with excitement. He couldn’t help it; he liked answers. The sun was almost completely gone from the sky, and, as they headed up to the residential floor for the second time that day, he was sure he could hear something.

“What’s that noise?” he asked quietly, squinting with concentration.

He wasn’t sure what it sounded like. A long wail, a sort of shrieking cry. Ah, of course. They were by the sea; seagulls.

“Never mind,” he murmured.

Mycroft stayed quiet, waiting patiently. As soon as the lift doors opened and it hit them, Sherlock took a step back, overwhelmed by the noise. That wasn’t seagulls. That wasn’t seagulls at all, and he had to wonder how much money had gone into soundproofing this building.

The whole floor seemed to be trembling and wailing. Cries from every room, so it seemed.

“Mycroft,” Sherlock said questioningly, stepping forwards to the closest resident door and sliding the viewing slat across to see inside.

There was a woman there, a woman he’d seen earlier reading a book and eating an apple in the library. He’d mistaken her for one of the staff when he’d first seen her, that was how well she looked. Now, though. Now she was curled up in the corner of her room, screeching and sobbing and looking utterly terrified.

“Psychosis,” Mycroft said quietly, stepping closer. “Every night. Every single one of the residents in this building.”

Sherlock turned and checked the one opposite; a man, a big man, one he’d passed in a corridor. He’d been with another man and a woman. They’d been headed towards the canteen together. He was now bawling and shrieking as if he was being torn in two from where he was hiding in the gap between wall and wardrobe – Sherlock could only see his back.

“We’ve tried medicating them, but their systems only burn them out. I’ve avoided adjusting the dosage in case of any fluctuations, because the last thing we want is for them to overdose,” Mycroft explained as he made his way along the corridor He watched his brother go from room to room to room and look more and more distressed after each one.

“It’s the dark,” he continued. “They don’t like the dark. The lights are kept on twenty-four hours a day, but still, every night, they scream. We’ve put them in rooms with no windows and it hasn’t made a difference.  They _know_ when night comes. They can feel it, apparently.”

Sherlock steeled himself and turned to face Mycroft. He could hardly hear anything over the howling. “What about the rest of them? The ones in the white building?”

Mycroft frowned for a second, deciding on the best way to answer that question and a few others that would come with it.

Eventually, he said: “The residents in the white building are mostly fine. Some of them are being let out soon, because they presented only a few difficulties that were easily overcome. Others needed therapists, but after a few sessions, they were fine, too, and are now almost ready to leave. A few of them have made it to the white building from here. Not very many, but some of them.”

“So what does that mean? What’s the connection?” Sherlock pressed.

“The longer they’re left alone, the worse their condition gets. I believe that Moriarty’s dungeon triggered something in their wolves that they can’t get overcome. Every morning they wake up with sore throats and have no idea why.” Mycroft took Sherlock’s arm and pulled him back into the lift, taking him up to the lounge so they could talk properly.

“Left alone, what does ‘left alone’ mean?”

Mycroft looked at him expectantly.

Sherlock flopped back against the wall of the lift.

_You and John don’t realise how lucky he was._

“The transition,” he breathed, finally understanding.

“Bingo,” his brother praised under his breath.

He’d caught John. That was what it was all about. He’d helped him with his wolf, with dealing with everything. He’d helped him through the transition that his body undertook. It all made sense now.

“These residents didn’t have anybody,” he said, thinking it through aloud. “Some of them have it worse than others because they were left alone for longer, or because their minds were weaker. They were left to deal with the transition on their own, and Moriarty kidnapped them and forced them into cages and left them to confront each other, and they snapped. He drove them insane.”

Mycroft didn’t say anything; he didn’t have to. Sherlock knew he was right. The lift dinged merrily and the doors rolled open. He shook his head with an almost disappointed sigh and dragged himself forwards, following Mycroft to sit down on one of the sofas in the corner.

“And it’s only ever at night?” he confirmed. Mycroft nodded. “What do you think, internal body clock?”

Mycroft scoffed. “Does John have an internal body clock?”

“Fair enough,” Sherlock reasoned.

“It’s their wolves,” Mycroft shrugged. “It has to be. What does John say about it?”

Sherlock blinked. “About what?”

“His wolf.”

“Oh,” Sherlock said quietly. “I haven’t asked.”

“Haven’t asked what?” Mycroft cocked an eyebrow.

“In general, I haven’t asked. We don’t really talk about it.”

“Why not?” Mycroft asked carefully.

“It’s not that he doesn’t want to,” Sherlock said quickly, “it’s just that we don’t need to. He and his wolf are the same person, Mycroft.”

“I don’t understand. How are they the same person?”

“They’ve got the same mind. They can remember each other, they treat me the same way.” Sherlock shrugged. “He _is_ the wolf.”

Mycroft nodded slowly. “Some of the white building wolves are like that, I think, but that’s not what I was talking about. Would he be able to tell when night fell?”

“I think so,” Sherlock nodded. “He knows when the sun will rise and fall. He can tell just from looking outside, almost to the quarter of the hour. Night would be easy.”

Mycroft nodded. “I see. Well, what do you say?”

Sherlock took a second to figure out what Mycroft was talking about. “Tell me what he’d do, firstly. How could he help them? What are you expecting?”

“I’d like him to visit a few times. He could talk to them, or maybe have a therapy session with them. I want them to see a positive example of how, with the right help, things will be fine. I think their wolves need to see that they don’t need to panic anymore.”

Sherlock thought back to when John first changed, and the complete and utter panic that possessed his wolf that night. He could understand how they’d gotten stuck in that phase. John had known who he was, and it had still taken months to get him to warm up.

“When would you need him?”

“When you don’t. The weekends, perhaps. It’s Monday today, so perhaps the next two Sundays. I’d like him to spend the full moon here so they can see what a smooth transformation is like.”

“Full moon? No. Absolutely not.” Sherlock crossed his arms and turned his head away.

“He’s not your toy, Sherlock. You can’t just keep him because you want to. These people need him,” Mycroft insisted.

“Find another way,” Sherlock growled.

“I’m sure he’ll be willing if you ask him.” Mycroft smiled, though his eyes remained cold and hard. “I keep telling you that I’m trying to help these people. You shouted at me when you thought I wasn’t, and you’re shouting at me now that I am. What do you want me to do?”

Sherlock took a deep breath, readying himself to say something rude, but in the end he just huffed it out again. It wasn’t worth it. He pulled out his phone, seeing that John had replied to his text and that it was ten past eight. He was overdue.

_Okay. Want dinner? JW_

“I’m late,” he announced, getting up and storming over to the lift as he replied with a positive.

Mycroft suppressed the urge to roll his eyes and got up to escort his brother home.

The rush hour was already thin simply because it was late, but there was still a disgusting amount of traffic, in Sherlock’s opinion. It was half past ten by the time he’d slammed the front door shut behind him.

“Heya,” John smiled softly from his armchair. He closed the lid of his laptop and put it aside.

The flat was suspiciously cosy tonight.

“Bloody hell,” John continued teasingly, getting up. “Whose ants got down your pants tonight?”

Sherlock gladly accepted the little kiss John gave him. “Mycroft’s.”

John hummed understandingly, pecking Sherlock’s chin. “Mm, you poor baby. I, meanwhile, have had a fantastic day sitting here pining after you.”

Sherlock seemed to shuffle uncomfortably, a blush heating his face. “You’d never pine for me, you’re not that sort of person.”

“No, I’m not. I was just really, _really_ bored.” John gave Sherlock’s chin another kiss. This time it was much more swift and final, and it broke the mood completely. He stepped away and went to the kitchen. “Hungry?”

“Starving. Haven’t eaten all day.” Sherlock shrugged off his coat as he followed.

“Where have you been? What was the case?” John asked brightly as he heated some leftover chili con carne in a saucepan.

Sherlock hesitated. “Actually, it wasn’t really a case.”

“Alright, then. Ignore the second question. Where have you been?”

“Mycroft took me somewhere. About what happened in April.” He glanced up at John, who had turned around to frown at him.

“What do you mean? Have they caught him?” John asked hopefully.

Sherlock sighed.

 

* * *

 

“Sure,” John smiled, sipping his water. “I don’t mind going in.”

Sherlock scowled at him. “But John—”

“Shut up. Learn to share. They need me more than you do.” John gestured at Sherlock’s food in a silent ‘keep eating or it’ll go cold’.

Sherlock shook his head, but carried on. “That’s not the only thing I don’t like about this,” he muttered.

“What else is wrong, Sherlock?” John frowned. “I don’t understand.”

“I don’t… I just think that… I—alright.” He closed his mouth and tried again. “What if Moriarty’s not dead?”

“Sherlock,” John said patiently, “they have his body.”

“I know. I know,” he nodded, going back down to his food. “I know.”

“Look, it’s okay to be worried.” John stood up and slipped his arm around Sherlock’s shoulders. “I understand. But Moriarty’s dead, alright?”

Sherlock nodded again. “It’s just a feeling.”


	9. Chapter 9

“You’re going on the naughty step when we get home,” John muttered.

Sherlock’s concerned stare turned into a faint scowl.

“What? You’re acting like a child, so I’m treating you like a child. Stop being a possessive dick and let me do some good.” John held Sherlock’s stare until his icy gaze gave in and turned away.

This car journey felt twice as long as it had last weekend, and that time he’d been with _Mycroft._ Who knew a trip with his partner could be even more horrendous than a trip with his brother? John was usually the one that neutralised the situation, not the one that made the air even more sour.

Sherlock didn’t speak for the rest of the time they were in the car. When they boarded the fancy boat he stalked to the corner and curled up in an armchair facing the wall. If John wanted to help Mycroft so badly, he may as well go the whole hog and enjoy a nice boat trip with him, too. When Sherlock glanced over his shoulder, John was looking at him in a way that was supposed to be meeting him halfway when it came to apology, but it was clear he didn’t really know what he was apologising for because he was sitting right next to Mycroft and sharing a laugh.

Sherlock turned back around and sulked for the rest of the half hour.

“Will you be joining us, or would you rather go and throw things around in the staff room?” Mycroft asked as he led them towards the white building. John was turning around on the spot as he walked, taking the whole place in.

“I need to go with you,” Sherlock said calmly. “I’d like to see how John feels about this facility.”

Mycroft looked disapproving, but he didn’t say anything else. He simply pressed the button for the lift and took John on the same tour he took Sherlock on, first showing him the residential floor and then taking him up to the recreational ones for a look around.

When they walked into the first room (more like a hall with multiple activities, really) that had residents in it, the whole place quietened fractionally. John raised his eyebrows and smiled when everyone turned to look, but didn’t say anything.

“I assume this has startled them slightly,” Mycroft said quietly, moving around to the centre of the hall. “They’ve said they can identify werewolves with their senses. I imagine you can, too. They haven’t met any others for a while.”

“Mm,” John nodded, his eyes roaming over the card games, chatting, TV. They seemed perfectly happy. “You can smell it, usually, but it’s something else, too. Sixth sense. It’s weird.”

“Why are they looking at _me?”_ Sherlock muttered uncomfortably, avoiding the people and going to look out of the window.

“Because you smell like me,” John reminded him. “It’s probably confusing.”

Sherlock turned his head to pin a man to his right with his piercing gaze, trying to threaten him into looking away. The man glanced over him, looked at John, looked back, wrinkled his nose in confusion, and turned away, bristling.

“See? It’s fine.” John made his way over to the young man. “Sorry, mate. He’s in a bad mood, just ignore him.”

The young man shook his head and continued staring at the TV. “It’s okay. I’m sorry for staring,” he said, turning back around to speak to Sherlock. His gaze roamed again, but he looked like he was trying to solve a puzzle. He shook his head again and turned around. “Sorry, I just—Yeah.”

John smiled faintly. “It’s alright, I know it must be confusing. I’m the werewolf. We live together, he’ll smell like me. It’s not just you.”

“No, that’s not… yeah, actually. I guess it must be.” The man shook his head, looking troubled, but didn’t offer anything to signal he wanted to carry on the conversation. John thought about asking his name, talking to him, but decided not to. He backed away, took Sherlock’s hand, and brought him back to Mycroft.

“Is there anyone in particular you want me to talk to today?” he asked keenly, his eyes lingering on a lady laughing with two men over a game of cards.

There was a sharp tug on his arm.

“Ow! Don’t do that.” He frowned at Sherlock.

“You were eyeing up a woman,” Sherlock said quietly, looking mildly disgusted.

“Sorry,” John murmured, shaking his head and turning back to Sherlock. “Sorry. She just caught my eye. I miss breasts.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and then cocked an eyebrow pointedly. John remembered that Mycroft was waiting for them.

“Shit,” he said, turning around with a sheepish grin. “I’m sorry. What was I saying?”

“In answer to your question, no, nobody in particular,” Mycroft said smoothly, doing a perfect job of pretending nothing had happened. “Would you rather I give you a schedule, or do you want to choose yourself?”

“Um, a schedule, please.” John always worked better under orders. Mycroft nodded and gestured towards a door marked “PRIVATE”, and, ten minutes later, John reappeared with a sheet of paper in his hands that he’d helped to create.

“Okay, then, let’s stay here for a bit. We don’t have to be in the therapy rooms for half an hour. Let’s talk to some people.” John smiled, looking around the room again.

“It’s making me physically ill to see you looking so pleased about socialising,” Sherlock muttered as John walked away towards a table with a different card game.

“Are you jealous, brother?” Mycroft teased, stepping up to stand next to him.

“Piss off,” he returned, stalking back towards the corner.

Leaving Sherlock to sulk, John hovered by the game until one of the older men offered him a seat and a hand for the next round. He’d always loved blackjack.

“What are you visiting for?” one of the women asked him, putting forward a run of four cards and forcing the next player to pick up two.

John smiled faintly, reordering his hand as he replied. “They want me to see if I can help,” he answered honestly, glancing up. “They’ve explained everything to me, but I think everyone in here is fine. It’s the others that might need me, I think.”

She nodded, and the older man that had pulled John up a chair laughed quietly. “Mm,” he sighed, “we’re not allowed over there. Some of us have come over _from_ there, but that’s the only reason we know what goes on.” He paused. “It’s horrible, isn’t it?”

John swallowed, trying to keep his confident face intact as he looked around the circle. He was thankful that the half a dozen players were mostly focused on their cards. “I haven’t been around there yet, but yes. It sounds nasty. That’s why I want to help.”

Another man looked up from his cards after his turn, frowning. “Were you in that pit, then? Like the rest of us?”

“What, the cells? The fighting ring? Yeah, I was.” John gave a tiny smile and kept an eye on the deck.

“Then why aren’t you here?” he asked, clearly suspicious.

John looked up again and around at the table. “Because I had someone to help me. The man by the window there, he figured out what was happening to me before I did. He took me to the woods and put me in a cage, and he used to sit there with me all night and take me home the next day, and he’d just… he made it alright.”

The gazes dropped again. John cleared his throat.

“So they think everyone here was dancing the fine line of things for a while, and the kidnappings just threw you over. It makes sense.” John put down another card to get things moving again. “I’m going to spend the full moon here and try and show everyone that it _is_ something you can control, and it’s _not_ the end of your life.”

There was a few minutes of silence, and then, from the woman: “Your boyfriend smells weird.”

John flushed a dark pink. “I’m sorry?”

“The man over there, the one you came in with. He smells strange.” She didn’t look up, instead looking slightly unsettled down at her cards.

John looked over his shoulder. Sherlock was still staring out of the window. “He smells like me,” he explained again, frowning. He wasn’t going to walk into the embarrassment of asking how she knew they were close. “Half werewolf, half human, it’s bound to smell strange.”

She looked unconvinced, but nodded anyway.

 

* * *

 

The journey home was less light-hearted. John had stayed to witness what happened in Clock Observation after dark, and it didn’t sit well with him to see people suffer like that. He’d made his mind up: he’d be coming back for the full moon no matter what Sherlock said. It was all he thought about in the car on the way home, and they didn’t get back until midnight for making arrangements about the next visit.

They went straight to bed.

“Sherlock,” John whispered after two hours of sleeplessness. “Sherlock, are you awake?”

Sherlock rolled onto his back, rubbing his eyes. “What?” he groaned quietly.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb you.” John snuggled closer.

“What is it?” Sherlock pursued, wrapping himself around John and trapping him in place.

“I don’t know if I can help those people,” he admitted after a second, tucking his face into Sherlock’s chest.

“John,” Sherlock sighed, dropping a kiss to the top of his head. “It’s not on you. They have dozens of medical professionals living there to keep them happy and healthy. Don’t worry about it.”

“Did you see the way they looked at us, though?” he frowned. “Those poor people thought I had some sort of cure. What if I can’t help?”

“You’ll do fine,” Sherlock assured him after a yawn. It was typical that John would disturb him on the nights he wanted to sleep. “I know you can help them.”

John smiled faintly, releasing the tension in his body with his own sigh. “Last time I checked, you weren’t a psychic. How can you possibly know that?”

Sherlock gave John’s hair another kiss. “Because you helped me, didn’t you?”

“That was ages ago, Sherlock, and you’re totally different.”

“No, I’m not. You can help people. It’s what you do, it’s what you’re good at. Now shut up, I’m trying to sleep.”

“Never thought I’d hear you say that,” John murmured, but he forced his worries away and quietened down for the night.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’d say we’ve finally reached a point where something important happens.  
> Paragraph summaries aren’t my usual writing style, as I’m sure you’ve guessed, but this chapter would have been unnecessarily long and boring (as are the rest of my chapters but sssshhhh don't tell anyone) if I hadn’t just given a brief overview for the beginning here.  
> Things do happen, so try not to skim too much.

Sherlock didn’t accompany John for the next couple of visits, because he didn’t think he could stand to both make the journey again and have to watch John have fun with someone that wasn’t him, and because it endlessly frustrated him to have to sit around and observe. He’d been given the case, not John, and yet there was nothing he could do about it and everything John could do about it.

Where was the fairness there?

No, he’d much rather stay behind and run his dandelion experiments. He couldn’t believe he’d never thought of it before, testing the growth of weeds. How many signs had he missed not knowing whether or not a person could garden or how long their grass had been left unattended? It was shameful, really.

So he did just that: stayed behind, tended to his dandelions and his creepers, and tried not to be too sour about it when John got home. Especially when John got home with news like “I sat in on a therapy session today, and _insignificant name_ seems to have made loads of progress” or “Mycroft said he thinks it’d be good for me to go in on Wednesdays, as well – you don’t mind, do you?” and practically shoved the words “That’s excellent, John” and “Of course not, John” right down his throat.

Well, maybe not exactly like that, he thought. He knew John was feeling good about this. In a rather uncharacteristic kindness, he had decided to leave him to it and say it was because he was wrapped up in his experiments and solving the steady flow of cases that came through to his email inbox. Besides, he got John the other five days of the week.

Only, the full moon brought something else with it that Sunday. It was a freezing cold November 17th and John turned to see Sherlock reluctantly wave him off from the window, just as he had for his last few visits to the rehabilitation centre. This was his third visit, and he really was feeling better about the progress some of the residents had made. Eight of them were even due for release if this full moon went well – all they had to do was prove that they were in complete control of their wolves and not at all a danger to themselves or their surroundings.

Mycroft showed John and his eight companions – five men and three women – down to a third building on the island, one that was large and had only two floors, and had four sets of double doors leading out into a fenced-off courtyard. This, apparently, was the observation unit for the full moons. Every other building had separate floors for the other residents to transform in, but they were using this building today so they had more space.

It went fantastically. It seemed like John was in more pain than a couple of them, but he had to remind himself that there had been dozens of people in Moriarty’s chambers before him, and he wasn’t the first werewolf. Aside from that, they all seemed to change with relative ease, and John started some games. He hardly even thought about it; it just felt natural to nip at some nails and bat some faces, and no harm was done.

In the morning, every single wolf remembered everything. Mycroft was immensely pleased, though nothing more than an absence of disdain in his features proved it. He let John exchange contact details with a few of them, share some congratulatory smalltalk, bask in his achievements for a while, as he put in a call to the head office about the progress that had been made. He still had a lot of work to do, however. He needed to check on CO and see if their night had gone at least slightly as planned.

“I hope you don’t mind seeing yourself out, John, only I’ve got a lot of work to do this morning,” Mycroft said, coming as close to a genuine smile as he could.

“Of course not. I need to get back, anyway. My sulk detectors are tingling.” John gave a one-fingered salute in a friendly goodbye and swung his duffle bag over his shoulder, heading back towards the shuttle yacht – and it was safe to say that he’d never thought he’d live those words.

By eight o’clock he was on his way back across the stretch of sea and towards Sherlock. He fell asleep on the boat, tired from jumping around for most of the night, and was lightly prodded awake by the captain when they reached the docks. He was asleep again before the car had even made it onto the motorway.

The next thing he knew his name was being called because they’d pulled up outside 221.

“Oh, God, sorry,” he mumbled, rubbing his eyes. He sat up from his slump and grabbed his bag. “Thanks very much.”

Usually he would have knocked, but it was ten o’clock on a Monday morning and there was a good chance nobody was home. Mrs Hudson did most of her shopping on Monday mornings as the shops weren’t at all busy, and Sherlock probably wouldn’t answer the door for him for another few weeks because of his so-called ‘loyalty to Mycroft,’ so he pulled his keys from the zip pocket at the front of his bag and let himself into the house.

“Sherlock,” he called wearily as he climbed the stairs. “You in there? I came back as early as I could.” There was still no reply. John allowed himself to think for a second that perhaps Sherlock was asleep, but he tried again anyway as he opened the door. “They’re letting eight pe—holy shit!”

John froze in the door way and looked for a second, trying not to go into shock. The whole of the living room looked as if it had been hit by a tornado in the most literal sense; all of the furniture had suffered to various degrees, either turned upside down, torn open, or completely smashed in; nothing was left on a shelf, instead strewn and broken across the floor (the damn skull had survived, though, John saw); a lot of the wallpaper had been torn and scratched from the walls, only shreds remaining here and there.

John surveyed the damage, and the first thought he had was _robbery_. Someone had come in, trashed the place, taken their laptops. As he surveyed the items left on the floor in an attempt to try and see what they had left, he noticed a bare foot sticking out from behind a pile of smashed-in desk in the corner.

His mouth went dry. He changed his theory to _attack._

“Sherlock,” he said, barely audibly, as he dropped his bag. He didn’t care what evidence he trampled and broke, he had to get to Sherlock, and he did so without noticing himself slipping into doctor mode. “Sherlock, it’s John. Can you hear me?”

Instinctively, the first thing he checked for was a pulse. Sherlock was lying face-down in the corner of the room, completely nude and atop a pile of books, splintering wood, and paper. He didn’t look to have any damage on him, luckily. John found a pulse and breathed a heavy sigh of relief.

“Sherlock, wake up for me, buddy.” He started feeling down the lanky limbs for any breaks or bruising but came up nought. Only some incredibly tight muscles and stiff joints. Sherlock’s face crumpled into a frown and he groaned. “Oh, thank God.”

“John,” Sherlock tried, blinking hard and then rubbing his eyes.

“It’s alright, it’s me, I’m here. Are you alright? What the hell happened?” John slipped an arm underneath Sherlock and pulled him upright. Sherlock grunted uncomfortably but ended up settled with the support of John’s chest, so he didn’t mind too much.

“Hurts,” he frowned, closing his eyes again. He’d never been this tired before. His head was pounding.

“What hurts?” John was moving strangely underneath him – searching for something in the mess.

“Everything. My head.”

After a quick feel, John declared it injury-free. “Do you remember what happened?”

Sherlock shook his head slowly and pulled away to try and get up himself. He wanted to see. “Can’t think of anything.”

John hesitated, freezing for a moment. “Does your… Sherlock, you have to level with me here. Do you know why you’ve got no clothes on? Does your... your bum, does that hurt?”

Sherlock’s eyes widened and he shook his head firmly. “No, John. No. God, no. Not at all, not that. They didn’t… do that. No.”

A deep blush took its time winding its way up both of their faces in the awkward accompanying silence. Sherlock was the one to eventually break it, too curious for further embarrassment.

“What… where were you?”

“I went to the rehab centre,” John replied, glad for the excuse to run over to his bag for his phone. “I’m going to call Lestrade. Stay here, I’ll get you your dressing gown.”

Once John had disappeared, Sherlock picked his way across the rubble and flopped down onto the tattered sofa, staring down at the gashes in the fabric where stuffing spilled out. Strange tears, they were. Certainly not made by a knife. He hurt too much for this, he was too tired for this.

His eyes snapped open (they were closed?) when he felt the soft silk of his blue dressing gown cover his front. He let John help him into it and then fell sideways into him, using his soft John as a pillow so he could sleep again.

“Try and stay awake, Sherlock,” he said softly, one shaky hand patting his thigh. John was afraid. “Just until I know you’re alright.”

“Why are you scared?” Sherlock murmured. He took John’s unsteady hand in his and squeezed comfortingly.

John hesitated in his reply, so when he opened his mouth again it was to reply to Lestrade on the phone and tell him someone had broken in. Only when he’d put the phone down again did he rest his cheek on Sherlock’s head and reply. His body language said relaxed, but his lack of unconscious movement said he was still nervous.

“Someone broke into our flat,” John said softly, closing his eyes with a deep frown. “They destroyed everything. Doesn’t that tell you this was targeted?”

Sherlock didn’t reply. He wasn’t quite sure that he agreed with that. Maybe it wasn’t targeted. Maybe it wasn’t a break-in. The tiny flicker of doubt stood up in his head for just a millisecond, and then he opened his eyes and it was gone. Of course someone had broken in. What else could it possibly have been?


	11. Chapter 11

John was worried about how tired Sherlock seemed. He supposed it could have been due to shock, seeing as it couldn’t be a concussion. His head was absolutely fine. In fact, the strange part was that all of him seemed absolutely fine. All he could do was instruct him to try and stay awake, because he very badly needed to go and speak to Mrs Hudson about all of this – of course, he didn’t expect Sherlock to actually stay awake. By the looks of things he was already half asleep again by the time John reached the door, but it was the thought that counted.

He knocked firmly on Mrs Hudson’s door. If she was in, she’d definitely have heard it, but after three tries and no answers, he gave up and went back upstairs. Shopping, then.

“Wake up, Sherlock,” John demanded, shaking his shoulder.

Sherlock made an indistinguishable whimpering noise and tensed under the grip. “Don’t.”

“Oh. Sorry.” John took his hand back. “You just need to stay awake for a little while, okay? Lestrade will have questions, and there’ll be a paramedic with him to check you over.”

“No hospitals,” Sherlock growled, curling up into a ball with his back to John.

“You’ll go to hospital if you need to go to hospital,” John replied firmly.

“I don’t need to.”

“Let’s leave the doctors to decide that, shall we?”

“You’re a doctor,” Sherlock pointed out, throwing a how-are-you-this-stupid look at John.

John cocked an eyebrow threateningly. “Do you want me to decide?”

Sherlock glared at him and turned away again just as the bell rang.

“That’ll be the police. I’ll be back. Don’t move.”

John rushed down the stairs, his own body still pumped with adrenaline. Greg Lestrade was on the other side of the door looking extremely concerned, and two police cars were pulling up across the road.

“The forensics team are on their way. Are you okay?” Lestrade said quickly, looking John over as he approached.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. I wasn’t here, just Sherlock. He’s upstairs.” John left the door open and led Greg up the stairs.

“Jesus Christ. How much did they take?” he breathed, picking his way across the floor.

John was momentarily distracted by Sherlock, who was sleeping yet again. He sat down next to him and pulled at his hair to wake him up again. “I haven’t even checked yet, I’ve been too caught up with this lump. Something’s wrong but I don’t know what. He just keeps falling asleep.”

Sherlock was ignoring them completely, sinking his head into the warmth of John’s thighs. The hand stroking his hair really wasn’t helping him stay awake.

“Has someone drugged him? Again?” Greg shook his head disapprovingly as a few officers entered behind him and started taking a look around. “Bloody hell, Sherlock. Who have you been pissing off? This is the second time this has happened, isn’t it?”

“In about a month, yeah.” John looked down at the ball of curls in his lap. “You don’t remember anything?”

Sherlock made a noise that sounded strangely like the grunting equivalent of a ‘No, John, so piss off.’ John sighed and raised his eyes to an amused-looking Lestrade.

“Mind if I check out the other rooms?” he asked, nodding behind him as he began to back away.

“God, I didn’t even think about them. Sure. Go ahead.”

“Mr. Watson?”

John turned to the doorway where a lone paramedic stood with a big medical bag slung over her shoulder. He would have stood to greet her if there hadn’t been a Sherlock now sprawled across his lap.

“Doctor, actually. Hello. Sherlock, there’s a paramedic here. Get up,” John called down, digging his hands underneath his partner to pull him upright.

Sherlock let loose a groan and, very deliberately, went floppy.

“Sherlock, stop it. Sit up and let her look at you,” John scolded. Sherlock cracked open an eye and glared at the paramedic, but eventually sat back against the sofa. “Thank you.”

“Alright,” the paramedic said with a friendly smile. She came to sit down next to them, setting her bag on the floor. “My name’s Izzy.”

It took a bit longer than usual for the paramedic to get through her adjusted ABCDE assessment of Sherlock, and he forced her to skip the unnecessary stages (all of them, in his opinion) anyway. John had managed to force her to get him a blood sample so he could check for any sort of substance in his system, though she seemed sceptical because of his almost perfect assessment results – her only issue was his high temperature, but, after a genius plan of John’s to test it on him, too, they were so high that she was forced to conclude that her thermometer was faulty. After a bit of pressure, she gave in and gave him the sample to examine himself, but before they got the chance the forensics team wanted everyone out.

John took his jacket off and gave it to Sherlock once they got outside, trying to keep him warm for a bit longer. He wanted him awake, not freezing to death, though the cold did help.

“Oh my goodness!” Mrs. Hudson forced her way past the police with two handfuls of shopping bags and an expression of horror. “What’s happened? Are you alright?”

John smiled and brought her in for a hug. “We’re fine, Mrs Hudson. Someone’s trashed our flat, but we’re not hurt.”

“Oh, no,” she frowned, turning to hug Sherlock. “Aren’t you boys cold out here? Come on, let’s get inside to my flat. They can’t leave you out here without proper clothes. I’ve got milk for the fridge, anyway.”

John thought about mentioning how she wouldn’t need a fridge to keep her milk cool with this weather, but decided against it. He himself was too cold to decline the warmth of Mrs Hudson’s flat.

“There, now,” she said with a smile, leading them in and putting her shopping on the kitchen table. “That’s much better, isn’t it?”

“Thank you,” Sherlock said to her, moving into the living room. John knew why, and he rolled his eyes because of it, but he needed to speak to Mrs Hudson before keeping Sherlock awake any longer.

“Um,” he began. He sat down at the table to watch her unpack her groceries. “Someone got in last night. You didn’t hear anything, did you?”

She paused for a second in thought, but ended up shaking her head. “Don’t think I heard anything, dear. I’m sorry.”

John sighed. “Anything you can tell us, Mrs Hudson, Sherlock can deduce. You know that.”

“I wasn’t here,” she shrugged, opening the fridge. “I heard you two going for a bit of hanky panky, so I went to visit Mrs Turner for some afternoon tea, and ended up staying for dinner. When I got back I put my earplugs in and went to read in bed. I didn’t hear anything unusual.”

John’s mouth went dry. She had definitely heard something unusual. “I wasn’t here yesterday.”

She stopped and turned around, a confused frown on her face. “Pardon?”

“I said I wasn’t here yesterday. I wasn’t in the flat. I left after lunch.” They shared an unsettled silence for a moment. “Are you sure you heard two people?”

She shook her head minutely. “N-no, it was… I heard Sherlock. He was making all sorts of noises. I don’t know, it was very muffled, I thought you were up there with him.”

John started to panic. Someone had obviously been in there with Sherlock, probably fighting him. He got up from the table and went into the living room to check on him again, but, in retrospect, should have known that he’d be fast asleep. He hadn’t seen or felt any injuries. How? Even Sherlock got bruises when he’d been in a scuffle.

John rested his forehead against the doorway and groaned softly. He was getting tired now.

“Budge over,” he said softly, creeping onto the sofa to lie behind Sherlock. John wrapped his arms around Sherlock, hugging his chest close, and let their strangely even temperatures soothe him to sleep.

They slept all day in that same position, both equally exhausted. Lestrade eventually found them, but it had taken hours to pick through the mess and examine everything, and he was getting to feel just as tired, so he told Mrs Hudson he’d come back for their statements tomorrow and moved everybody out for the evening.

John woke up first, roused by the slam of the front door behind them. He tried to get back to sleep before anybody noticed.

“Woo-oo,” Mrs Hudson cooed softly, knocking on the door as she entered. “Sorry to wake you, but that Mr. Lestrade has gone. He says he’s coming back tomorrow for the statements, and that he didn’t want to wake you.”

“Clearly you had no such inhibition,” Sherlock muttered, shifting on the sofa.

She smiled. “I think you’re both lazy buggers, and you need to go and clean your flat.”

With one last little grin in their direction, she left the door open and went back to her baking.

“God, I’m bloody starving,” John grumbled, sitting up.

“Same,” Sherlock frowned, rubbing his aching stomach. “I wonder if the fridge survived. I forgot to check.”

“Me, too.”

A quick look around said it had, but that not many of their kitchen supplies had. A chipped plate, two mugs (one cracked), a few pieces of cutlery that hadn’t been bent out of shape or snapped, two saucepans, and some tins were all that remained intact. The fridge had been scratched up but the insides remained as they had been when John had left, which was mostly inedible at any rate, so he grabbed the saucepan and heated up three tins of tomato soup.

Mrs. Hudson kindly brought up a plate of bread and butter and two mugs of tea, and the upset was obvious on her face even before she saw them sat on the floor sharing soup straight from a battered saucepan. They reassured her that they were fine and gratefully accepted the tea.

“I’ll contact Mycroft in the morning,” Sherlock said once she’d gone. “He can lend us some supplies until we get ourselves back on our feet.”

John paused. “Why do they always wait until the full moon?” he asked quietly, staring down at their pathetic dinner.

Sherlock didn’t really have an answer. “Don’t stress yourself. Let’s eat up, go to bed, and sort it out in the morning when we both feel better.”

“Sleep on it.” John nodded. “Always a good plan.”

Sherlock went to bed first, and John let him. He’d decided he definitely wasn’t drugged. The exhaustion must have been shock, because he was starting to feel it now, too. He left the empty saucepan, spoons, mugs, and plate in the sink and headed to the bedroom, but ended up stopping in his tracks as a wave of icy cold flooded his blood.

There, caught in the splinters of the shattered kitchen table, was a clump of black fur. For once he found himself grateful that Anderson wasn’t too good at his job.


	12. Chapter 12

John woke up feeling stiflingly hot and out of breath. A quiet moan jumped from his throat as soon as he opened his mouth, serving to wake him up faster, because _mother of God,_ that was a good feeling to wake up to. There was a hand on his cock, pumping it slowly all the way from base to tip, and another arm hugging him from behind – only the hand attached to that one was gently massaging his balls.

“Morning,” a voice purred in his ear. Sherlock kissed down his neck and across his shoulder blades, and John could feel an erection being rubbed against his back.

“My birthday?” John managed, pressing back against Sherlock’s crotch. He turned his head to try and catch the other’s lips in his, but all he got for his efforts was a mouthful of hair.

Sherlock chuckled quietly. “Not quite,” he murmured as he trailed his kisses back up. “I just got bored of waiting.”

“Love you, too,” John teased half-heartedly, cocking his head until he’d managed to press a kiss to Sherlock’s chin. “Fucking hell, your _hands_ …”

“Well, I’ve had a lot of practise with this particular instrument. I find it plays especially well if I do this.” Sherlock slid his hand up again and started shallowly pumping just the head of John’s cock, receiving a pleasantly surprised moan and a buck forwards. That was all the permission he needed to start grinding harder against John’s backside, and he finally let himself loosen and reach full mast. “Mm, one of my favourite notes,” he continued, slightly breathless now as he worked John harder and used every downward stroke to pull his arse back to meet his thrusts.

“Keep on like that and this won’t take very long at all,” John whimpered. His knuckles were white where his hands fisted into the pillows, because Sherlock’s fingers had started gently sliding over his perineum as his palm kept at his balls.

“Lestrade will be here in approximately half an hour,” Sherlock replied between nips to John’s neck. He started grinding harder, pumping faster, clearly gunning for the home stretch now. John began to curse Greg’s name in his mind but quickly found his attention snatched back to the hands at his groin by a lone finger that began to dance over the very tip of his cock, rub over the hole, smooth circles around it.

John came with a strained grunt, bucking forwards into Sherlock’s hands even as their hold got a bit too tight. He felt them pull back a bit, and then sticky hands were gripping his hips and pulling him back to meet faster, harder thrusts that he was happy to help with. A few seconds later, Sherlock’s cock was pressed hard into his back, and he could feel it twitch behind the layers of fabric as the man came with a low moan.

In unison, the pair of them flopped onto their backs (John onto Sherlock’s arm, still cradling his side), sighed happily, and then snorted out their respective huffs of laughter at their twin reactions before settling down and enjoying each other’s’ company in silence for a few minutes.

“How much longer until Greg gets here?” John asked, a forearm over his closed eyes.

Sherlock stroked his hip with his thumb. “Twenty minutes.”

“Oh, shit,” John sighed, pulling his arm away to look down at himself. “We need showers.”

“No,” Sherlock looked down at his own crotch and then John’s, “ _you_ need to shower. Mine was perfectly contained.”

John laughed as he glanced over, and Sherlock had indeed managed to keep it all in his trousers. There was a small wet patch on the front that made John laugh a bit louder.

“You must be sticky,” he teased, slipping his hand across to rub at Sherlock’s crotch.

“John! That is _disgusting_ , get off!” Sherlock grabbed at his wrist and threw it away, quickly sitting up and scrambling from the bed. “Well, yes, _now_ I’m sticky, you arse.”

John just laughed harder until a pillow whacked him in the face.

“Stop laughing. Utterly childish.”

“You’d be howling on the floor if you did that to me,” John pointed out, sitting up and bursting into laughter again as he saw Sherlock’s face with his hand down his trousers trying to wipe himself clean. “Fucking hell, you didn’t find it so gross a few minutes ago, did you?”

Sherlock simply threw him a glare, and John’s laughter turned to quiet chuckles as he left for the shower.

He’d only just made it out in time for Greg to arrive, but by the time he was dressed, Sherlock’s statement was already being given and signed off.

“You really don’t remember any of it?” Lestrade asked, shaking his head.

Sherlock shook his head. “Nothing past John leaving, no.”

“And you were out,” he confirmed, turning to John, who nodded. “Jesus. I can tell these are going to be useful. Come on, let’s just get this done.”

It took less than fifteen minutes to get John’s done, but Lestrade ended up sticking around for a few minutes. John made him a cup of tea, but any friendly conversation they managed to bring up always trailed off as they looked at the tip that was their flat.

“Forensics said they couldn’t find any fingerprints that weren’t yours or Mrs. Hudson’s,” Greg said eventually, looking back at the two of them. “Whoever did this didn’t leave us anything.”

He didn’t get a response, but John did blink strangely and direct his gaze down to his tea. Sherlock noticed and didn’t say a word, so he just carried on.

“Why d’you think they did it? Just to scare you? You think they knew John would be out, maybe wanted to exploit a weakness?”

Sherlock seemed to think for a second, and he eventually nodded. “I’d suspect so, yes. We’ll have to be more careful.”

 _Much more careful,_ John thought, but he didn’t speak again. The companionable silence seemed to turn awkward very quickly this time, so Lestrade finished his drink, handed his mug to John, and stood up to let himself out.

“What’s wrong?” Sherlock fired immediately, narrowing his eyes at John. “What have you found that you won’t tell Lestrade about?”

John swallowed hard. His eyes locked onto Sherlock’s as soon as they lifted, but by the time he’d opened his mouth to speak, Greg was calling Sherlock’s name from downstairs. Sherlock frowned, but John’s mouth had closed again, so he went to see what the problem was.

“Your brother’s sent his love,” said a grinning Lestrade, who was holding the door open for some cleaning ladies that were armed with brooms and bin bags.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and went back inside.

“We need to leave,” he muttered to John, throwing him his coat.

John looked sorrowfully down at his half-drunk mug of tea. “Why?”

He didn’t get his answer straight away. Sherlock pulled him down the stairs and let him see for himself.

“That’s kind of Mycroft,” he mused aloud as they headed to the park.

“What did you find?” Sherlock repeated firmly, clearly not ready to admit that anything his brother did was kind or appreciated.

John sighed. “There was a clump of black fur caught in the kitchen table,” he answered. “It’s in a sandwich bag in my old room upstairs if you want to take a look when we get back.”

Sherlock was silent for a minute, and John left him to think; it was one of those moments where he could almost see the cogs turning behind Sherlock’s eyes.

“They let loose a wolf in our flat,” he said slowly, but he didn’t sound so much unsettled as he did confused.

“Seems like it,” John said, his voice far away and his eyes on the ground. He should have been there. He knew what had happened last time and he’d still gone and left Sherlock alone. He should have _been there._

“Then why didn’t it kill me?” Sherlock asked, turning to John almost challengingly.

John shrugged as they turned into the park. “I don’t know. Maybe it was an older one. Knew who it was, what it was doing.”

Sherlock shook his head. “The furniture was torn apart, John, it was _angry_ , and I don’t have a scratch on me. They must have knocked me out in the early afternoon when you left – they’d have kept the copy of our key from the last time this happened, which would explain why there were no signs of forced entry. Night fell at twenty past four, if I’m correct, which I am, so they’d have waited there until they changed, and then… what? Stripped me down and left me on a pile of wood while they tore at my clothes and smashed just two rooms of our flat?”

John was quiet as he took all of this in. “That doesn’t sound right, does it?”

“Ah, good. You follow.” Sherlock sounded teasing but his face was stormy and their pace had picked up as they made their way across the park. John didn’t know or care where they were going.

“What are you implying, Sherlock?”

“I don’t know. That’s my exact problem. There are a dozen facts and no theories that fit any of them, so clearly we’re missing some important details. For example, who the wolf I keep dreaming of was, and why the fur you found in our kitchen was black if that one was cream.” Sherlock ran a hand through his hair. “This way.”

“Where are we going?” John frowned, looking around the high street. His head was buzzing.

“To get lunch. I’m bloody starving.”


	13. Chapter 13

Sherlock assured John that Mycroft wasn’t just cleaning, he was replacing – which, apparently, meant they wouldn’t be allowed back into their own home for the rest of the day. John suggested visiting the Natural History Museum, but Sherlock said that due to a run-in he’d had with Anderson a few years ago, he was unable to glance over anything dinosaur-related without vomiting. John didn’t ask. Instead, he suggested the Science Museum.

“On a Tuesday afternoon?” came the reply. “With schoolchildren everywhere? You must be joking.”

He also tried the National Gallery,  the London Eye, and the London Dungeon, but Sherlock stood firm with his utter refusal to go anywhere that stood even the smallest chance of having a child in the vicinity. He had just one option left.

“Right, then,” he said. He took Sherlock’s hand and pulled him around to face the other way. “Scotland Yard.”

Sherlock’s face lit up. _“Finally,”_ he cried, stepping into the road to wave down a cab.

“You absolute dick,” John muttered, rolling his eyes. “Why didn’t you just tell me that was where you wanted to go?”

“Need to keep you sharp.” Sherlock pulled open the door with a smile and gestured for John to get in first.

“Suppose it wasted some time,” he admitted, checking his watch. “Scotland Yard, please.”

“We need to ask for the CCTV from Baker Street last night,” Sherlock explained, pulling out his phone and opening his web browser. “See if anyone was loitering or trying to get in.”

John nodded. “Are you texting Greg? He probably went straight back to the Yard, you know.”

“I’m not texting,” Sherlock muttered. He turned the phone screen so John could see. “The website for Moran’s club, it doesn’t exist anymore. Searches turn up nothing. Clever little thing, those sorts of viruses.”

Sherlock shook his head and put his phone away. John tried his best to think of something smart or worthwhile to say, but came up blank. Instead, he put his hand on Sherlock’s leg and stroked it gently. “Feeling alright?” he asked.

“Yes. Why?”

“You didn’t look well yesterday. Just making sure.” John gave him a little smile, and the rest of the journey drifted by in thoughtful silence.

Of course, nothing in relation to Sherlock Holmes could remain silent for too long.

“Lestrade,” Sherlock demanded, shoving the doors to his floor open and barging on through.

“Sherlock,” John hissed, hitting his arm from where he struggled to keep pace next to him. “You’re overexcited. There are people here trying to work.”

“Lestrade!” Sherlock shouted again, louder this time, as he banged both fists against the DI’s office door. It opened in seconds.

“Bloody hell, what’s wrong?” Lestrade frowned, looking between the pair of them.

“I need your computer.” Sherlock gave Greg an entirely unconvincing smile and pushed past him.

When the inspector sent a questioning glance at John, all he got in reply was a ‘don’t ask’ shake of John’s head.

Lestrade sighed and stepped back to let John in. “Alright, what are you doing?” he asked, resigned.

“He wants some CCTV,” John supplied, crossing his arms in the chair he’d settled into.

“Uh, no, it doesn’t feed through to my computer,” Greg said.

“Yes, it does,” Sherlock corrected, tapping away at the keyboard.

“God, Sherlock. Please don’t hack it. I’m sure you broke something last time.”

“It’ll be fine,” Sherlock said absently. “Ah. There.” He pressed the space bar a dozen times, and then very pointedly slammed the enter key.

Lestrade came to look over his shoulder, frowning. John got up to have a look, too.

“They must have frozen it,” Lestrade said after several minutes of staring at their road. Not a single car passed by over a sped-up period of three hours.

“Yes,” said Sherlock vaguely. His eyes were fixed on a leaf flickering in the corner of the screen. “Yes, they must have.”

Without any warning, he leapt up and started out of the room, making both of the men behind him jump.

“Hey, where the hell d’you think you’re going?” Greg shouted after him. “How do I get my computer back?!”

John groaned. “Sorry, Greg. But I really don’t think I should leave him alone right now. I’ll call you!”

“Hey! What? Oh, for…”

By the time John got outside, Sherlock was pacing lengthy lines around the Scotland Yard sign.

“Lestrade’s not happy with you,” John warned him, but Sherlock just waved his hand flippantly. John sighed. “Sherlock, what’s going on? What do you want?”

Sherlock paused for a second. He looked up at an exasperated John, and just as he opened his mouth to reply, his phone let out a shrill ring.

“Mycroft,” he muttered upon seeing the caller ID. Then he looked up as if an idea had struck. “Mycroft,” he said again, this time sounding almost excited as he turned around and shot down the steps to call a cab.

“Sherlock!” John whined, chasing after him again. He only just managed to slip into the cab before they drove off, and it looked like they were heading home.

“Yes?” Sherlock snapped down the phone. Then he paused for a moment. “I see. Look, I’d rather talk in person, there are some things I need to discuss with you. Stick around for ten minutes. Make yourself a cup of tea.”

The phone went back into his pocket.

“What did he say?” John asked, trying to pull Sherlock into telling him _something,_ at least.

“We’ll see,” Sherlock replied simply. John heard the finality in his tone and gave up, letting the cab settle into another silence. This one wasn’t half as meaningful as the last.

When they pulled up, John paid the cabbie while Sherlock headed inside. There were still a few people milling around, some packing brooms and toolboxes into the backs of vans, some in black suits leaning against black cars. He didn’t bother trying to figure out who was there for what because Mycroft Holmes was in his building, so he automatically assumed they were all hired help and he had nothing to worry about. Despite the numerous people outside, though, there was hardly anyone inside. Just one person sweeping their stairs.

“Sorry,” John muttered awkwardly as he stepped around him.

“Ah, there he is.” Mycroft smiled at John as he appeared in the doorway. The flat looked immaculate – it made John feel slightly uneasy. “Sit. I have something to tell you.”

“Please tell me it’s that you’re getting him a sedative,” John replied, nodding towards Sherlock who was practically vibrating in his newly-upholstered seat.

“All in good time. You’ll find I’ve replaced everything from both rooms that needed so. Not everything was available at such short notice, so I’ve had to make a few changes, but I’m sure you, John, will hardly notice.” Mycroft smiled again, but John had heard the offence in that statement. He decided not to comment. “I have also increased the surveillance around the residence.”

“What?” Sherlock snapped, freezing and glaring at Mycroft. “No.”

“You don’t get a say,” Mycroft responded in a voice that said he’d had the same reaction hundreds of times before. “Once is an inconvenience. Twice is a threat. I won’t let anyone get to have a third attempt at you, especially not someone who is aware of not just John and his schedule, but the state of the moon as well, do you hear me?”

Sherlock’s jaw clenched, but he offered no further argument. John, from the sofa, felt a slight squeeze of endearment in his chest; they did love each other, really. Very, very deep down.

“Thank you,” he said on Sherlock’s behalf. “That’s good of you, and we appreciate it.”

Sherlock scoffed and turned his face away.

“Still. That’s not to say you don’t need to keep an eye out. Patterns can change, remember.” Mycroft looked strangely sincere when he said that, but in a second the worried look was gone and he was standing up. “Until next time, doctor, Sherlock.”

John smiled, but didn’t bother getting up. Mycroft didn’t look like he wanted any farewell other than a quick, sweeping one. Sherlock, however, had other ideas, and he sprang up to chase his brother down the stairs, shrieking, “Mycroft! Hold on!”

John sighed for the thousandth time and got up to make some tea.

“What is it?” Mycroft asked, pausing in the hallway outside Mrs Hudson’s door.

“Your wolves, the ones John sees. Do any of them have black fur?” Sherlock asked, one of his eyes narrowed in thought.

Mycroft nodded. “Yes, one of them. Why?”

“And do you have a ginger one?” he asked. Best to put Mycroft off the trail as best he could.

“Yes, I think so. The fur colour seems to at least partially depend on the natural colour of the hair,” Mycroft said. “I’d assumed you knew that.”

“I did,” Sherlock said, sucking some air into his chest. Mycroft noticed and a glint of amusement shone in his eyes. “I was just making sure.”

“Of course. Now, if you don’t mind, it’s getting on. I’m late for an afternoon tea with the deputy.” Mycroft smirked, and then turned on the spot to let himself out.

Sherlock deflated as soon as Mycroft shut the door behind him, sinking back onto the bottom step. He crumpled against the wall, every trace of energy gone. If he listened hard enough, he could hear Mycroft’s feet on the other side of the door as he descended the concrete steps and got into his car. He could hear the kettle boiling. He could hear the television loud and clear through the wall behind him from next door. _Black wolf_ , he thought. _Black wolf, black hair. Highly increased senses, appetite, temperature, and need for sleep. Decreased temper._

But he had brown hair.

That was what he was clinging to. That was his final excuse as he dragged himself back up the stairs and flopped into his armchair. He didn’t care what anyone else said. His hair wasn’t black. It was brown.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has been by far the easiest to write. Managed to get it done in an hour, if you can believe it. But that also means it's probably riddled with mistakes, so if you see any, don't be shy to come and yell. That goes for the rest of the fic as well.
> 
> [Trythisoutchiki](http://archiveofourown.org/user/trythisoutchiki) did an amazing thing with the shoes idea in this chapter. Got my ball rolling so fast. Thank you! ~~I hope I got the shoes right oops~~

Over the next few days, John and Sherlock tried their best to get back into the swing of things. John had a call from Mycroft telling him that the residents he’d been with at the rehabilitation centre the previous weekend had been let go, and continuing follow-up checks proved them to be doing very well so far. John was very happy and agreed to pay a few more visits in a week or two, when he wasn’t babysitting a silent Sherlock.

Sherlock heard the entire exchange from his position on the sofa, and he wasn’t being _babysat,_ thank you very much, but he said nothing. He just didn’t know how to be anymore. He had all of this information buzzing around in his head, and none of it amounted to anything – how did people live like this, with so many useless facts racing around and being _nowhere?_

John had gotten used to speaking to a brick wall by now, it seemed, because he sounded much more comfortable pretending Sherlock was listening these days than he had the first day, especially when trying to coax him into eating. It was annoying. Why should he get to feel comfortable when all Sherlock felt was frustration? Was this what it was like to not understand? It was horrible.

Every time John left the room, he’d come back and find half of his tea gone, or a few crumbs on the floor in front of the sofa, but he could never catch Sherlock actually consuming anything. It was a slight comfort to be convinced he was at least snacking – because, really, where could Sherlock hide tea and biscuits? – but until he had actual proof of consumption he wouldn’t be happy. Sherlock had tricked him too many times before.

“You’re going to make yourself ill,” John tried, staring at the back of Sherlock’s head from his chair. It was getting on for dinner time, and John hadn’t seen him eat anything solid since they’d been kicked out of their own flat three days ago. “Starving yourself won’t make your brain go faster.”

Well, at least John seemed to understand now why he was upset. Still, it wasn’t enough to convince him.

“I’m making pasta,” John continued, softer this time. “I’ve got bacon. I’m no chef, but I could make a sort of carbonara for you if you wanted.”

Sherlock had to admit, that did sound tempting.

“It’s quiet without you.” John shifted in his seat and sighed. “Bloody hell, I don’t even know if you can hear me. Are you asleep? Probably. I hope so.” A short pause, and then another sigh. “There’ll be food for you if you want it.”

John had said that to him every time he made anything to eat, but there was something in his voice tonight that made Sherlock want to get up and join him. He didn’t. Not for another day, at least.

It was early in the morning when his phone rang, and Sherlock had actually been planning on eating something overnight only to find that he couldn’t actually move. The only thing he could do was sit and wallow in self-pity about how hungry he was; he felt crippled by it. His whole body was curled in on itself, aching right through to his bones. He should have had dinner, he thought to himself. Should have just sucked it up and had dinner. It had smelt delicious.

“Hi, Greg,” John said tiredly. He’d answered Sherlock’s phone. Greg? “Oh my God. Thank you. Really, I mean it, thank you.”

 _What’s he done now?_ Sherlock heard down the phone.

“He’s been in a black mood for days. I can’t get him to eat or anything.”

_Well, this should pull him up a bit. There’s been a wave of new attacks overnight, just like Sherlock’s._

“Oh, God. Where?”

_Everywhere._

“I’m sorry?”

_It’s everywhere, John._

“What do you—”

_All over the country._

“Oh, shit. Right.”

_We’ve got the newest site open now, but you’ll have to get here quick. It’s the last one in London and I can’t keep it open for much longer._

“Yeah, I’ll get right on it and give you a call soon. Bye.” He put the phone back on the table. “Sherlock, we’ve got a case that you’ll really want to see.”

“Can’t,” Sherlock groaned. It was the first word he’d said in days, and John seemed to falter slightly at the random breakthrough.

“Oh. What… Why can’t you?”

“Can’t move,” Sherlock grunted, clutching tightly at his stomach. “My stomach.”

“Oh, God,” John sighed. He left and went for the kitchen, and Sherlock heard the switch on the kettle and the creak of a cupboard door. “We have to go soon. I’ll get you a snack to start you off with and when we get back you can have something proper to eat.”

If John was right and Sherlock _had_ been snacking over the few days, he wouldn’t be so hard to feed. If he’d been starving himself things would probably go very differently.

“Here.” John placed a cup of tea on the table behind him. “Digestives. Something plain.”

Sherlock grunted nonsensically, and John sensed he’d need a more action-centred plan, so he dug his hands under Sherlock’s back and scooped him up.

“You big baby,” he murmured, propping him up and dumping the pack of biscuits in his lap. “You’re just a bit hungry.”

Sherlock tore open the biscuits and started chomping into two at once.

“Hey!” John snatched the rest of the pack away. “Slow down or you’ll be sick. One bite at a time. Dip them in here, soften them a bit, they’ll go faster.”

Sherlock accepted his tea and had gotten five biscuits down in what John was sure was less than a minute, but it was the slowest he could get. Then he put the biscuits away and left Sherlock to finish his tea.

“I’m going to text Lestrade and get the address. You go and get dressed. Hurry up.” John collected the mug and plucked his own phone from his pocket, all the while ushering Sherlock towards the bedroom.

Half an hour later (a feat of humanity, according to John) they pulled up at the crime scene.

“You’ve got ten minutes,” Lestrade said, jogging over. “I’ve kept it clear for you, everyone’s  out here.”

“Thanks,” John nodded to him before trying to catch up with Sherlock. How he managed to walk so fast when he’d almost fallen asleep and died of starvation twice in the cab on the way over, John wasn’t sure, but by the time he caught up Sherlock had turned and was going back towards Lestrade even faster.

“How many?” he snapped fiercely.

Lestrade jumped. “What?”

“How many?” Sherlock repeated. “How many people? Where?”

Lestrade floundered, shaking his head. “Um, seventeen. All over the country. Eleven of them were in London, and the rest were in Cheshire, Leicestershire, Norfolk, Oxfordshire, Surrey, and Dorset.”

“How many of them died?”

“Four. All London.”

“I need to see one that survived,” Sherlock demanded. “Right now. It’s very important.”

“I’ll have to make a call,” Greg said. “What’s this for? What have you got?”

“Lestrade, please!” Sherlock snapped, clenching his hands into fists.

Greg frowned. “Alright. Two minutes.”

Sherlock nodded and stepped back, breathing.

“You okay?” John said quietly, sidling up next to Sherlock and taking his hand. It tensed, but then relaxed and tightened again around John’s. He nodded stiffly. He didn’t look okay at all.

“Georgina Willis, she’s in St. Ann’s Hospital in Harringay.” Lestrade announced as he came back over.

“Thank you,” Sherlock replied, and then he was running for another cab.

“What’s going on?” Lestrade asked John. John had no idea.

They made it to the hospital in good time, Lestrade’s police badge told them that Georgina Willis was in the recovery unit and that she’d been in surgery being patched up for quite a while. The nurse they found leaving the ward said her wounds had been extensive, and it had taken some skilful stitching to get everything looking straight again, but that she should make a full recovery.

John had to thank her as Sherlock barged in ahead and went straight for the interview.

“Georgina Willis,” Sherlock said, pulling out his badge. “I’m DI Greg Lestrade, this is Dr. John Watson. I need to ask you a few questions about last night.” He didn’t bother sitting down.

The woman stirred in the bed. She was awake, but John could easily tell that she’d been given some strong medication and that it was in her best interest to get Sherlock to slow down a bit.

“Give her some time,” he said softly, patting Sherlock’s arm. “She’s not feeling well.”

Sherlock sighed impatiently.

“I’ve already told the police,” she said predictably, rubbing her eyes, “I don’t remember anything. Not a single thing past leaving my house.”

“Where were you going?” Sherlock pressed.

“A… I don’t… Maybe a party,” she decided. “Nothing special.”

“And you don’t know anything?”

“Sorry to interrupt,” the nurse said, bringing a clear plastic bag into the room. Sherlock froze as he saw what was inside. “I’ve got your things. I’ll leave them here for you.”

“Um,” Georgina began, frowning at the bag. “Those… That’s not mine.”

The nurse paused and glanced down at the bag, but Sherlock was gone before she got her reply out.

“Sorry. Thank you for your time,” John said politely. He turned and bolted after Sherlock, chasing the coat tails and tall shadows until he finally ended up outside and the man slowed down a bit.

“Bloody hell!” John shouted, hitting his arm. “What’s wrong with you today?”

“Those weren’t her shoes,” Sherlock muttered. He was glancing around, his eyes narrowed in thought. “John, they don’t have their own shoes.”

“What are you on about?” John sighed, shaking his head.

“Didn’t you recognise them?” Sherlock frowned. John shrugged. “Nike Air Invented 1987, John.” John looked blank. Sherlock sighed. “Carl Powers!”

John’s eyebrows twitched. His face hardened. “What?”

“Carl Powers. They’re the same sort of shoes that Carl Powers wore on the day he died.”

John swallowed hard. “Are you trying to… what does that mean?”

“He’s back,” Sherlock said quietly, tucking John into his side. “Moriarty’s back.”


	15. Chapter 15

Sherlock slammed Mycroft’s office door.

“You lied to me!” he raged, advancing towards the desk and banging both fists on the wood. “I should have made you let me see him. I should have _forced you_ and found out for myself.”

Mycroft looked entirely startled and unsettled. “I’m sorry?” he asked cautiously, putting his pen down.

“Oh, yes, of course,” Sherlock mocked. “Sweet Mr. Mycroft Holmes only ever works for the greater good, he had _no idea_ what really goes on. _Don’t lie to me!”_

Sherlock pounded his fists on the desk, and the solid oak rattled on its feet. He breathed hard in the accompanying silence, snorting like a bull in a fight as he held Mycroft’s baffled gaze. His brother waited for a moment to let him relax, stand up, gather himself.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft began calmly. “You’re talking nonsense. Sit down, let me pour you a drink, and then explain to me what’s happened.”

“I don’t want a drink,” Sherlock spat, but he lowered himself back into one of the plush chairs anyway. He was quiet for a moment, contemplating what appeared to be genuine confusion on Mycroft’s face as he let him pour one for himself. Then he joined Sherlock on the other visitor chair. Sign of equality, Sherlock noted bitterly. Trying to tell him they were on the same side. He wasn’t going to let it work.

“What’s wrong?” Mycroft asked, putting his glass down on a coaster at his desk.

“What’s wrong,” Sherlock repeated with a scoff. “I didn’t think you’d ever go this far, Mycroft. I know you want to protect me, but telling me he was dead? Obviously that would have put me in _more_ danger. Don’t you ever think?”

Mycroft looked confused again. “Start from the beginning.”

“Bloody hell,” Sherlock growled. “I don’t have time for this. I just came to tell you that you’re a manipulative bastard and John’s not coming back to your facility.” He began to stand up, but Mycroft grabbed his wrist and pulled him back down. “Get off of me.”

“Sherlock!” Mycroft snapped, but for all the irritation in his voice he still looked strangely innocent. Sherlock found himself feeling a bit ill at the reminder of the contrast between who his brother appeared to be and who his brother was – when alone with him, at least. “Please stay. Talk to me. I don’t understand.”

The last bit was a bit choked, and clearly it was hard for Mycroft to admit. Sherlock didn’t think he’d ever said those words in his life. In truth, that was the only reason he’d stayed sitting.

“Moriarty’s back,” Sherlock said quietly, resting his head in his hand.

“He can’t be,” Mycroft replied confidently. He was torn between confusion and protectiveness as he noticed how weary Sherlock had become in the space of just a minute. “I told you the truth, Sherlock. James Moriarty is dead and gone and I would never be stupid enough to endanger you by telling you otherwise.”

Sherlock closed his eyes and frowned. “His grubby fingerprints are everywhere, Mycroft.”

“They are?” Mycroft froze.

“No, not his _fingerprints._ Lord alive.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “He’s taunting me. There’s been a nationwide attack overnight, exactly like the one I fell victim to last month. All of the victims had their shoes taken and replaced with a pair of Nike Air Invented 1987.”

They were both quiet for a moment. “A copycat, then.”

“Too subtle for a copycat. A copycat would have gone in guns blazing and made it very clear what and who he was copying.”

Mycroft knew that. “Sebastian Moran.”

Sherlock shook his head. “It doesn’t seem his style.”

“How could you know? You only knew him for ten minutes,” he pointed out, taking his drink up again.

“During which it was easy to tell that he’s a soldier who kills with guns and hands or nothing at all, and then he proceeded to fellate his boss as he got off on watching two animals try and kill each other. He doesn’t play around, Mycroft, he doesn’t tease. He likes to jump into things for all or none.”

Mycroft sighed. He downed the rest of his drink and left his glass on the desk, standing up. “Come on.”

“What?” Sherlock stood up automatically and waited for Mycroft to shrug on his coat. “Where to? I’m not going home. This is important and we need to discuss it.”

“I’m not going to take you home. I am not a taxi service.” Mycroft frowned at his brother and began to lead the way out. “We’re going to see him.”

Sherlock’s head perked. “Say that again.”

“Much like you, I hate unnecessary repetition. This way.”

Mycroft took Sherlock around the back of the building and through the car park, where his signature black car was waiting for them. Sherlock perked up immeasurably on the walk, though Mycroft suspected it hadn’t been the fresh air that had managed to liven him up as much as it had been the promise of seeing his enemy’s dead body.

“Where are we going?” Sherlock asked, looking out the window as the journey began. They were heading east, he noted.

“I’d be breaking the law if I told you, but that doesn’t mean you can’t figure it out for yourself.” Mycroft got out his phone, presumably continuing his office work. Sherlock looked out of the window, surprisingly interested as to where the government morgue actually was. He’d never needed to know before.

It turned out to be underground. Mycroft swung some employers and flashed some ID cards and soon they were on their own as they walked the corridors, looking for Bank 13, Cell 1269.

“Does John know you’ve come?” Mycroft asked conversationally. Sherlock hummed.

“He’s angry at you,” he said in passing, noting that they were coming up to double-digit cell banks. “He’d assumed the same thing I had, but I managed to convince him to stay at home and let me sort it out.”

“Because you wanted to come alone and you knew John would stop you from hitting me,” Mycroft realised with a smile, but Sherlock didn’t confirm or deny. “Here we are.”

Sherlock stared at the wall of small, square doors, trying to identify 1269. Eventually, he tapped on the front of one on the ground between them with the toe of his shoe. “The key’s yours.”

They crouched, and Mycroft worked the key in the little lock.

“Step away,” he said warningly, motioning for Sherlock to move back. Then he swung the door open and pulled out a trolley, where there was a body with a thin paper sheet over it. He peeled it back, and there was James Moriarty with a clean hole in the side of his head.

“More,” Sherlock demanded, waving at the paper.

Mycroft peeled it back a bit further, revealing several other bullet holes scattered over his front. Sherlock expected that his back wasn’t clean skin, either.

“‘Moriarty, James’,” Mycroft read from the label tagged onto his wrist, “‘black hair, brown eyes, five feet, eight inches tall’.”

Sherlock slapped Mycroft’s hand away and pulled the tag to look at from his direction. That was exactly what it had said, word for word. He sighed and sat down on the floor, leaning back against the metal wall of cell doors behind him.

“I assume the test results were conclusive, too,” Sherlock said, resigned.

“As conclusive as they could be. The man was like a ghost.”

He could have been wrong, but Mycroft almost sounded impressed. Just as Sherlock started making a comment about how fantastic Moriarty really had to have been to get Mycroft’s voice to sound like _that,_ his phone went off in his pocket. He raised an eyebrow at his brother.

“Phone signal? Down here?”

“When have you ever heard of a top secret government location that does _not_ have phone signal?” Mycroft replied sweetly, but his face hardened when he saw Sherlock’s turn white at the text he’d read. “Give it to me.”

Mycroft ended up having to pry the phone from Sherlock’s frozen grip.

_Enjoying yourself? JM_

“Get up,” Mycroft said, already on his feet and pushing the body back in. “We’re going to trace it.”

“It’ll be blocked,” Sherlock growled, scrubbing his face with his hands. “It’s not him. It can’t be, not like that. Has to be a different copycat.”

“We can at least try and locate them.” Mycroft grabbed a fistful of Sherlock’s coat and dragged him up and out as another text came through.

_You look like you’ve seen a ghost. JM_

Sherlock snatched his phone back and dialled John immediately, their pace increasing the longer he took to pick up.

“Hi,” John greeted. Sherlock could hear the wind and some cars. “What’s up?”

“John!” Sherlock cried, scandalised. “Why are you outside?”

“I went to get Mrs. Hudson her shopping,” came the reply. “She’s not feeling well. Why, what is it? What’s happened?”

“Go home. Right now. Right this second, drop everything, turn around, and go home.”

“I’m already on my way home,” John began to sound worried. “Sherlock, is everything okay?”

“No, it’s not. Go home and look after Mrs. Hudson. Lock the doors. I’ll be home soon.” Sherlock slammed the car door behind him.

“Okay. It’s okay. I will. Is there anything I can do?”

“Stay safe.”

“I could say the same to you.”

Sherlock paused. “Please, just listen to me. Stay safe.”

John sighed. “I will. I love you.”

“You, too,” Sherlock replied, glancing at Mycroft. “Just… I’ll see you later.”

“Not if I see you first.”


	16. Chapter 16

Much to Sherlock’s surprise, nothing happened.

Mycroft gave him a lift to Baker Street, even going so far as to come inside with him to make sure everything was okay, and, after a slight panic at the emptiness of flat B, found John helping Mrs. Hudson whip up a delicious-smelling shepherd’s pie for dinner. It was about time Sherlock sat down and ate a real meal, she said, and Mycroft was welcome to join them. He politely declined and, after a quick sweep of the upper floors to check for hidden bugs or weapons, bade the three goodbye and let himself out.

Early the next morning, Scotland Yard did manage to trace the text back to a number and a location. Unfortunately, the group sent out to capture Moriarty with guns and handcuffs came back with just the scarecrow whose suit jacket’s pocket the phone had been tucked into. Westwood, Sherlock had noted, but he didn’t bother sharing.

After that, life on the Moriarty-reminiscent taunting front went quiet for a while. Sherlock kept himself aware, didn’t let anything wander into his mind palace to be filed away or forgotten. He wasn’t going to make any mistakes this time. The only thing he couldn’t figure out was why making no mistakes seemed to be exactly his current problem – maybe he was being too thorough. Maybe Moriarty would only show himself at a weak point.

Well, in that case, he could stay in hiding.

That seemed to be exactly what he did for the next two weeks. The police were keeping tabs on everything, even with Mycroft’s upped surveillance, and nothing exceptional happened. They had an interesting case that landed John in hospital overnight for a concussion. No doubt he’d have stayed longer had he not had abnormal healing rates. They were lucky he hadn’t been kept under observation for his deathly high temperature, really, but they’d seemed happy enough just to give him some medicine and let him sleep his ‘fever’ off at home.

They had another case in the second week, one that ended a bit less nicely, but neither of them ended up in hospital and John considered that a victory. Besides, Sherlock insisted, the bullet had barely grazed him.

The one thing that Sherlock _did_ put aside was his analysis of the fur John had given him. His feathers had been majorly ruffled by the conclusive proof that it was, in fact, brown and not black, so he’d decided to put it in a sandwich bag and shove it into one of his books about the lunar cycle on his shelf and not think about it again. Did not thinking about things ever work when it came to trying to prevent them? He hoped so.

It seemed that after two weeks, however, he’d unknowingly let his guard slip a little bit, and he didn’t realise until it was too late.

“John,” Sherlock called up the stairs. He wiped his feet on the mat and started pulling his gloves off. “John! I’ve had a brainwave. It can’t have been an inside job when none of—”

He didn’t quite have time to school the expression of surprise on his face as he saw Moriarty happily eating an apple and browsing through his phone from Sherlock’s chair, trademark suit snug against his frame. Sherlock faltered slightly in his thoughts and his steps, but forced himself to keep going through the shock. Jim didn’t even seem to have noticed he was there, and before Sherlock could open his mouth he became aware of the scrapes and rustles coming from his kitchen.

He wasn’t sure if he was ecstatic or terrified to see that it wasn’t John. Sebastian Moran seemed to look a bit different since the last time Sherlock had laid eyes on him; he still looked like he had a job to do, but it was no longer the smart suit or the clean haircut. He was on a mission and it wasn’t just the kitchen raid it seemed to be. Army boots, combats, casual black military jacket – he wasn’t in service anymore, so it was clear he either liked the uniform or used it for his current job. Probably both.

“Afternoon,” Sherlock said, a frown twisting his face.

Moriarty grunted from his seat and took another bite of is apple. Moran continued rifling through the cupboards, occasionally grabbing packets of crisps and biscuit snacks.

“Is John here?” he continued, unbuttoning his jacket. Christ, he hoped John wasn’t here.

“Upstairs,” Jim replied distantly. Sherlock saw him scroll down for a while.

“Does he know you’re here?” Sherlock asked, wondering if anybody did. If the police did, if his brother did.

“I expect he did,” Moriarty replied playfully, shrugging slightly.

Sherlock paused, glanced over the both of them. They were clear of anything incriminating, though he knew that wasn’t true, so it was obvious Moriarty had done a quick clean-up of their persons before Sherlock had gotten in.

“What did you do to him?” He thought it was a fair question, but Moriarty seemed to be biting back a smile of genuine amusement.

“Sebastian pulled a little number with some chloroform,” he said, finally looking up and staring Sherlock in the eye. Sherlock began to notice tiny little changes in him, ones that were so small he began to question whether he really could see that twitch or whether Jim had put that little strand of hair in the wrong place on purpose to make everything feel on edge. “It took a lot, though. The man’s got almost as much immunity as you must have.”

Sherlock glared. “How?”

Jim grinned.

_“How?”_

He sighed. His unnervingly controlling grin wobbled slightly. “I could ask you the same.”

Sherlock swallowed hard. “I don’t understand.”

“No, I expect you don’t.” He blinked for a fraction of a second too long.

“What happened?” Sherlock said instantly, eyes flickering again over the suit as his mouth twitched into a faint smile. Jim seemed to have tried very hard to appear as if nothing was wrong.

“They got the wrong man,” he said, all hints of a smile dropping from his face. Now he was looking at Sherlock with genuine malice.

“Obviously,” Sherlock muttered, blinking a few more times to make sure he was actually seeing things right. He glanced to his left to find Sebastian cracking himself open a beer.

“Not too much, Sebastian,” Moriarty called. His gaze softened as he finally turned to look at his companion. “We’ve got reservations for tonight, remember.”

Moran flashed him a fond smile and crouched down with his bottle to start on the lower cupboards. Sherlock’s eyes remained on Jim, who almost looked like some sort of affectionate husband – that was, until he turned back to his business. Fascinating.

“Twins,” Sherlock said softly, glancing over Jim’s hair again. It was different, he realised. Not just different from the little mistake that was stuck there, but styled completely differently to the hair on the corpse he’d seen earlier. “You’re a twin. How refreshing.”

Jim flinched, and Sherlock saw the rage flash behind his eyes at the genuine interest he heard in his voice. He said nothing.

“I mean it, I really do. I haven’t had murder committed by twins with a shared psychosis for, oh, about fifteen years.” Sherlock started to smile. He could see a weakness here. Oh, a _twin._ Of course. _Fantastic._

“You’re wrong,” Jim muttered sourly. One of his fists had clenched atop the armrest of the chair. “It wasn’t shared.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed in thought. “Just you,” he breathed, looking over him again. “Hard, was it? Never quite good enough. I’m familiar with the feeling.”

“No,” Moriarty said, surprisingly softly. He almost smiled. “No, never that. No. He had a stutter.”

Sherlock blinked. “A stutter?”

“Anxiety,” he filled in patronisingly. “They used to laugh at him.”

“You protected him, then,” Sherlock concluded, finally sinking back into a seat on the sofa. “A twin, all this time, and nobody had any idea. Richard Moriarty.”

“Brook, actually,” Jim said, biting into his apple. Sherlock saw it now, everything that was wrong with the picture. James Moriarty was grieving. “I was born a Brook.”

“Your whole life spent protecting your dear brother,” he mused, shaking his head. “First from the bullies, then from you, and then from what you do. Fantastic.”

“I suppose everything has its time, though, hm?” Moriarty said quietly, looking up at Sherlock again with that same dark look in his eyes.

“Suppose so,” Sherlock replied, sitting up a bit. “What about your tricks a couple of weeks ago? Care to enlighten me?”

Jim started to smile again, but this time it was different, this time he actually looked pleased. “Call it an experiment.”

“What experiment?”

“My experiment. You had your fun with your little John when it was your go. You got what you needed. Now I’m having my fun with my country when it’s my go, and I’ll get what I need,” he dictated. “Call it pushing the boundaries. Testing the waters.”

Sherlock frowned. “What boundaries?”

Moriarty snorted a quiet laugh, shook his head. Then he got up. “Come, Sebastian. I don’t like being late.”

Sherlock’s jaw clenched. “Nothing else to say to me?”

No reply.

“What was the point in coming here if all you wanted to do was tell me I was wrong?”

This time Jim paused, turned around, grinning. “Because the look on your face when you get confused is the most adorable thing I’ve ever seen.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and stood up. “Get out of my flat.”

“Didn’t want to be here anyway,” Jim sneered, deliberately making a mocking face at Sherlock. He waved Sebastian out ahead of him and then, just before he left, turned back to the detective. “Oh, there was one more thing. Good luck next weekend.”

With that and one more grin, he turned and left, the apple going with him.

 _Next weekend_ , Sherlock thought, _next weekend._ What was next weekend? 17 th. December 17th. Ah, he realised. Of course. The full moon.


	17. Chapter 17

Sherlock’s instant reaction to hearing the front door slam behind Jim Moriarty’s back was to fumble around for his phone and call Mycroft. He didn’t have time right then to think about when Mycroft had become his first call over Lestrade – and, to be honest, he didn’t particularly _want_ to – as he was far too busy hitting every single one of his joints on open cupboard doors in his scramble to get up to John.

John was, indeed, upstairs, for the first time in months. Everything he needed from his room had gradually migrated to Sherlock’s, and now there was a thick layer of dust over all of the abandoned trinkets and toiletries which made it much easier to tell that John had been placed on the bed, which was now empty. Luckily, there was a tell-tale pile of John on the floor on the other side of it, groaning and looking a bit confused.

Mycroft didn’t pick up.

“John,” Sherlock breathed, dialling Mycroft again as he went round and helped him up. “You’re an idiot. Should have stayed in the bed.”

“Wanted to find you, didn’t I?” John muttered after clearing his throat. He rubbed his eyes and then the back of his head. “Is everything okay?”

Sherlock growled and shoved his phone in his pocket. Mycroft was refusing to answer; must be in a meeting. “Everything’s fine. Can you walk?”

John nodded, seemingly much more awake now that he was on his feet, and Sherlock waved a hand to encourage him to follow him downstairs. Upon sight of the cluttered kitchen, his eyes widened.

“Oh my God. What happened? What the… Not another robbery, was it?” He crouched and started poking through the scattered cereal boxes and bags of nuts and dried fruit, beginning to pile them up.

“No.” Sherlock shook his head with a sigh. “It was Moriarty.”

“Look, Sherlock, I understand that you’re worried about him and you think he’s behind all of this, but you have to be sensible. There’s no way he’s behind this.”

“Yes, John there is!” Sherlock shouted, turning around with his hands balled into fists at his sides. “Because they shot the wrong man! They shot the _wrong bloody man,_ and now he’s running around not only as his usual mad self but also as a grieving brother bent on bloody avenging him in every way he bloody can!”

John was quiet for a moment, glad he couldn’t fall any lower than where he was already sitting on the floor. “Shot the… What?”

“He has a twin. They shot his twin. I only realised a few minutes ago. He came here to let me know he’s got plans.”

“What plans?”

“I don’t know.”

John sighed and put his face in his hands. All he could think about were those poor people stuck with not-quite-existent mental health issues, suffering at the hands of this man who literally got off on masochism, both first- and second-hand.

“John.”

John shook his head. He wasn’t finished fretting yet, _actually._

“John, please. I really need to discuss something with you.” Sherlock crouched on the floor next to John.

“Can’t,” he said firmly. “Not yet. Later.”

Sherlock left him to deal with things in his own little way. A minute later saw a cup of tea being placed on the floor in front of John, and half an hour later saw John settling down in his armchair opposite Sherlock. The tea had gone.

“What did you want to talk about?” John asked measuredly, hands held in his lap. Sherlock thought he looked strangely meek.

He hesitated. It was best to just spit it out, right? That was what he was always telling people.

“I think I’m a werewolf.”

John blinked. “Run that by me again.”

“I said, I think I’m a werewolf.”

A short pause. John swallowed. “One more time.”

“I’m not saying it again,” Sherlock muttered, glaring at John.

John rubbed his eye with one finger. “Okay. Right. Well. Where’d you get that idea from?”

Sherlock scoffed. “Don’t talk to me like that, John.”

“What? Like what?” John sat up and had the decency to look mildly confused and offended.

“Like I’m a child having delusions of the bogeyman,” was the best analogy Sherlock could think of. “I have the evidence and I think we need to reconsider our plans for the weekend.”

“You have evidence,” John said, raising an eyebrow. Not even he had concrete evidence of his ‘condition’ – at least, not to his knowledge. “Go on, then. Show me.”

Sherlock frowned. “Alright, not conclusive proof, but there have been far too many coincidences in the last two months for it to be nothing.”

“Alright, go on. Coincidences. Gimme.” John put his elbow on the arm of his chair and rested his chin in his hand, a faint frown on his face. He clearly wasn’t convinced, but he was anxious.

“First one right after the attack on me in October: my wounds healed brilliantly quickly. Next, the nightmares, just like yours were – terrifying in every way, but teeth, all just teeth. The clue after that: the new eating and sleeping habits. They weren’t reset from hospital because I’ve been in hospital before and no such things occurred.

“Then the heightened senses, where I could smell that body under the floor even when you couldn’t, and I could hear your heartbeat right to the back of my skull after we’d had sex. My temperature has rocketed to the point where you no longer flinch when you touch me, but I feel perfectly fine and you didn’t seem to realise, indicating it happened gradually, while I was around you. After that came Mycroft’s rehabilitation centre, where the residents told you I smelt funny. They could smell me when you couldn’t because you’re _used_ to the way I smell, John. It changed but your nose changed with it.

“The next bit’s obvious. In fact, you discovered it. Well, me. Nude, buried in splintered furniture. Smashed out of rage. Everything smashed, but nothing further than the closed kitchen door or the front door, because there wasn’t enough awareness to bother to break through them. No visitors arriving or leaving through that whole night from any CCTV. Black fur. Black fur, because of black hair, just like your fur is the same as your hair.

“And, finally, the fact that Moriarty wished me luck for next weekend.”

Sherlock let the silence between he and John thicken for a few seconds. He was staring intently at his flatmate, who seemed to have been stuffed full of information a long time ago as the rest Sherlock could almost see physically flying over his head.

“John,” he prompted.

“That… That doesn’t prove anything. At all. So you’re a bit hungry, so you had a nightmare, tough fucking shit. You’re not a superhuman, Sherlock, and I think you’re close enough to one already that you shouldn’t be bloody bragging _or_ complaining either way when there are people out there _suffering_ because of a _real_ problem you’ve convinced yourself you’re a victim of! Grow up and stop being such a God-damned drama queen!”

Sherlock was left wide-eyed and slack-jawed as John stormed away and slammed their bedroom door behind him. A stab of pain twisted his heart at the emotion he’d heard in John’s outburst; he really thought Sherlock was attention-seeking and finding excuses. The fact that he’d gotten so angry about that said a lot to him about how John felt about being what he was, and how he saw the problem, so he couldn’t say the scolding hadn’t done _something_ for him, but for some reason he still felt he had to apologise.

Ridiculous. He hadn’t done anything wrong.

After a good half an hour of thinking – unfortunately, his efforts were fruitless and yielded him no answers – he got up and walked through the kitchen, fully prepared to knock the door down in order to get John to let him apologise for his apparently thoughtless behaviour. And then his phone rang.

 _“What?”_ he snarled into the phone, turning on his heel – he’d forgotten to check who it was, too, and had a moment of panic where he thought that what if the Queen had called and he’d answered her like that?

He wasn’t sure how long it had taken for this to become a properly solidified chance in his head, but he knew he was very relieved when it turned out to be Lestrade.

“Georgina Willis,” the phone blared. “You did get a chance to talk to her, didn’t you?”

“Who?” Sherlock frowned, tucking his phone between his cheek and his shoulder to do some research.

“Series of attacks like yours all over London three weeks ago. You wanted to speak to the nearest living victim and she was it. You just took off and never told me why.”

Sounded like him. “The one with the shoes.”

“The what?”

“Nothing. What about her?”

“She’s been reported missing. No obvious causes, but that’s not our division. Just thought I’d let you know and ask you if you have any ideas.”

“Dozens,” Sherlock groaned. They all had one common denominator. “Thank you for letting me know. Keep me posted.”

“Sure.” Lestrade hung up without saying goodbye. Sherlock expected he was having a bad day, and decided not to call him back for a while.

As Sherlock tucked the phone back into his pocket, he went and pounded on the bedroom door. “John!” he cried, using both fists. “John, come on, we’ve got a case!”

No reply. Would John remember her name? Probably. He was a people person, wasn’t he? He did names well. Not women’s names, though, apparently. Still, it was all Sherlock had.

“Georgina Willis,” Sherlock called through. “She’s been kidnapped.”


	18. Chapter 18

For all that John was clearly concerned for Georgina Willis and her kidnapping, he was very reluctant to cooperate with Sherlock about solving it. Though, for all that Sherlock seemed to _want_ to solve it, _he_ was very reluctant to actually do anything about it. John had begun to wonder if there was something else about her case that he wanted to solve rather than the actual case of her disappearance – but, for the life of him, he wasn’t certain of what it was.

He had refused to respond to Sherlock’s hammering on the door. He supposed it meant something that he hadn’t just barged in, because, after all, the door hadn’t been locked, but the five minutes of trying to bribe John into coming out had angered him even more, and he wasn’t in the mood for any more of Sherlock’s deductions for a little while.

Eventually, Sherlock sighed and gave up. “Fine,” he muttered, rubbing the bruising on his hands. “If you want to sulk, you can have half an hour. I need to see Lestrade before he goes home, and if you’re not with me it’s your problem.”

John was distracted for a second by Sherlock’s astounding ability to make things sound like John was in the wrong. Was he not the one trying to push himself into the spotlight yet again? Was he not the one almost _insulting_ the effects of John’s condition by saying that his own senses are still better? And was he not, in a way, insulting John for being clueless enough not to recognise the results of a change he’d experienced a dozen times before? That was, despite the fact that he only remembered half of them fully and clearly.

Part of John knew that he was overreacting, and that Sherlock probably hadn’t deserved the bollocking he’d given him. He blamed it on his shortened temper and paid attention to the other part of himself instead: the part that was reluctant to pay any attention to Sherlock at all when he was so pissed off with him.

It took him five minutes to realise that this was a selfish thing to dwell on when a woman had been kidnapped.

“Who’s been kidnapped?” John started, after collecting some tea to calm his nerves and easing himself onto the sofa. He didn’t look very friendly.

“Georgina Willis,” Sherlock repeated. “She was one of the surviving victims of an overnight nationwide attack. We interviewed her about three weeks ago in hospital and she got given back a pair of shoes from the Carl Powers case that weren’t hers.” John was nodding his head. “Lestrade just called and told me she was missing.”

“Presumed kidnapped?” John confirmed, but Sherlock shook his head.

“Oh, no, that’s something I’ve worked out,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand.

“Wait a minute,” John frowned, “how can you just assume she’s been kidnapped?”

He had a feeling this would be another one of Sherlock’s deductions (assumptions, in his mind) that would get him all hot and bothered. He wasn’t in the mood for jumping to conclusions today.

“Well, she and twelve others got attacked by Jim Moriarty and his _pet_ and survived,” Sherlock said cautiously. He seemed to sense that John was on the edge of another yell. “Clearly he’s going back to finish the job. That’s why we’re going to see Lestrade.”

John wanted to point out that Sherlock had no conclusive proof that it was Moriarty and no reasoning behind his theory, but he thought he could do with a trip out and a chat with someone who _wasn’t_ Sherlock. “Fine. Let’s go.”

On the drive there to Scotland Yard the cab felt so tense and pressured that Sherlock had to excuse himself when they arrived to use the loo. John went straight up to see Lestrade.

“Greg?” John asked, pushing the door to his office open as he knocked.

“Oh. Hiya, John,” he greeted, looking up briefly from his computer. He kept typing, a deep frown set on his ashen face. “No Sherlock?”

“Loo. He’s driving me mad today, I just needed a minute alone.” John sank into one of the seats and sighed. It seemed neither of them were on top form this afternoon. “He told me that woman has been reported missing.”

“Which woman?” Lestrade glanced back up. “Oh, Willis. Yeah. I asked people to keep an ear out for the case and any developments, and, unfortunately, the development we got wasn’t a survivor’s account, but a disappearance.” He sighed and scrubbed his face with his hands. “Sorry, John. I’m buried alive in paperwork, here. Is there anything you really need?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact.” Sherlock burst through, closing the door behind him and not bothering to sit down. “I think Georgina Willis has been kidnapped, and I think you’ll be finding her body if you find her at all. I need lists of the names of all the victims of the attacks and those who have gone missing in the last three weeks.”

Greg was a few seconds behind, and was left staring at Sherlock for their duration. “Where the hell d’you get that idea from?”

Sherlock sighed. Why did everyone ask the same questions? “She survived an attack from Jim Moriarty and I’m in the belief that he doesn’t like loose ends. He’ll have realised she’s alive and taken her back to finish the job. The lists, please.”

“Look, Sherlock, I’m not the department of missing persons. I can get you the first, but where am I going to get the second from?” Lestrade covered his face with his hands, exhausted already.

“You get me every other list and file I need.” Sherlock frowned. “You’re the Detective Inspector. Just go in and ask them.”

Greg sighed. “I have work to do, Sherlock.”

“You always say that. I might be able to save this woman if you can get me these lists.” Sherlock kept his eyes on Lestrade’s and eventually he groaned.

“Fine. Fine. Get out and I’ll email them to you before I go home.”

Sherlock frowned at him, unsure whether or not to say anything about what had happened to Lestrade that morning. Lestrade blushed deeply – the only colour Sherlock could see on his face that day – and turned back to his computer. Sherlock decided not to.

“Thanks, Greg,” John said as they left.

Walking the corridors to the exit, Sherlock thought that maybe it would spark some conversation and went for it.

“He and his ex-wife bumped into each other at a mutual friend’s party last night and woke up in bed together this morning, that’s why he looks so rough,” Sherlock muttered.

“I don’t care, Sherlock,” John snapped, walking faster. “Please don’t talk to me. I’m too tired for this.”

“Look, John, I’m sorry—”

“Nope. I meant it. I’m still not quite over our visit from bloody Moriarty this morning, I’m not ready to talk about it yet.”

“But I don’t know—”

“Sherlock.” John halted and spun around on the spot, scowling at him. “Please.”

Sherlock hesitated, but eventually nodded. John kept walking.

The rest of the evening passed quietly. They got back to the flat and John turned his chair slightly so he could see the TV. Despite numerous offers from Sherlock, John insisted he wasn’t hungry. Sherlock spent the evening checking his phone every minute for emails from Lestrade, bordering on obsessively, but since he split his time evenly between that and checking how tense John was, he decided it was no such thing. John had begun to unwind an after the first mind-numbing hospital drama, and by the second science-fiction show, Sherlock knew he’d fallen asleep.

At nine o’clock his email arrived.

Before so much as checking it, he slid a pillow behind John’s head and shoulder and tucked a blanket around him. At least he wouldn’t wake up grumpy now, only hungry. Then he switched off the TV and turned on his laptop, opening the lists on there instead. He had them side by side, but scanned the list of victims first. Each name had a link to, Sherlock found when he hovered over it, what he assumed was an online viewing of its own simplified page from a case file.

_Alexander, Carlisle (deceased)_

What was it Lestrade had said? Seventeen victims. Four dead, all London. Survivors were from Cheshire, Leicestershire, Norfolk, Oxfordshire, Surrey, and Dorset.

_Carson, Maria_

_Cummings, Ronald_

_Emmery, Zachary_

_Davies, Martha (deceased)_

Sherlock blinked. He had to start from the beginning. _Carson, Maria._ He clicked on the name and was asked for an ID and password. He clenched his jaw. Was it too late to text Lestrade? He really couldn’t be bothered to crack a password when he had so much to think about. With a suffering sigh, he got up and dug a stolen Lestrade ID from his coat pocket and typed in the card number for the ID. Then he sent a text asking for a password.

Fifteen minutes and one email ( _“changing the password in an hour so no funny business u hear me?”_ ) later, Sherlock was in and reading over the important sections Carson’s notes.

_“Admitted to **. *****’* Hospital at 01:31AM with four severe linear lacerations down back reminiscent of that of animal attacks. Flesh wounds. Head trauma from what appeared to be a forwards fall – suggesting a running attack. Having been admitted unconscious, victim was rushed to theatre for necessary sutures and awoke three hours later. Medicated with morphine to manage pain as and when necessary. Discharged two days later and placed on bedrest. Maintains having little to no memory of events of Friday 22 nd Nov.”_

Sherlock copied the name and searched for it on the missing persons list. There is was, page two. _Carson, Maria._ Didn’t come home from work a fortnight ago.

Lestrade had been slacking.

Sherlock grabbed some Post-its and wrote down the name. Then he carried on his reading and added Ronald Cummings and Zachary Emmery to his list. All three of them were attacked and missing. The fourth in the list – Stephen Harris – confused him at first. The ambulance had been called because he’d been found unconscious, but he had no head wound and his bloods came back clear. He had no underlying conditions and wasn’t on any medication. He woke up with a persistent itch on his shoulder and found a thin scratch across the front. Apparently, that was all the damage he had, and he still couldn’t remember a thing about the night before.

All eleven of the surviving victims had gone missing in the last three weeks. Sherlock could only hope that he wouldn’t wake up in the morning to some sort of a hendec-icide.


	19. Chapter 19

No bodies had turned up. At least, none that weren’t Sherlock’s missing eleven victims. He wasn’t sure whether he was surprised or not, because, really, if Moriarty’s plan had been to kill them wouldn’t he have done it the first time? Left the bodies in plain sight like he had before, right under Sherlock’s nose in his own city? Even if he’d wanted to wait and create some sense of anticipation, a week was pushing it. People lost interest after a week; the investigation was no longer top priority.

Plenty of other bodies had turned up, though. Lestrade seemed to be chasing up three cases at once at all times. Sherlock hadn’t been asked out for any of them, but he’d done his best to be as irritating as possible and could tell from the urgency and strain in the inspector’s voice that he either had a lot of work to do or kept waking up in bed with his wife – Sherlock supposed he’d have had to be there to tell for sure.

Not only were everyone else’s murders taunting him, though: John was also being less than helpful with regards to entertainment. Apparently he was still upset about what Sherlock had tried to tell him over the weekend, because he seemed to have an extremely cold shoulder to share with him. Conversation was civil and, if Sherlock was lucky, friendly, but John kept his distance and made sure that it was clear that he wasn’t in the mood for anything more than that.

Although it hadn’t been a particularly long time since Sherlock had gotten a leg over, this week he really wanted it more badly than he had in a while. He supposed it was because John was pulling away, and he wanted the intimacy back. He wanted to know that he had him. They slept in the same bed every night and yet he couldn’t help but get the feeling that John would have felt more comfortable a whole floor away.

Sherlock didn’t mention any of it, of course. John could handle himself and he’d come around when he wanted to. He’d be sensible and explain everything very clearly, because he’d know that Sherlock wasn’t good at understanding things like that, and then there would maybe be a bit of a fight because Sherlock would say something like “what a stupid reason to get upset,” but eventually things would work themselves out.

Thinking about it, it shouldn’t have taken more than a week, and yet come Wednesday John still hadn’t even started to soften.

If anything he’d grown more agitated. Of course, Sherlock had to allow for the impending moon, so he didn’t really hope to get anywhere _quickly_ , but when John started speaking to him even less and completely pulling away when Sherlock tried to cuddle him, concern began to set in.

So, in an attempt to perhaps make John feel better and keep himself from feeling so rejected, Sherlock turned his attention to Moriarty for the rest of the week. He checked his phone obsessively for any more provocative messages, or any signs of any changes, or even any kidnappings, but things remained duller than a murder suicide on a hot day. His usual restlessness set in (not because of the full moon, he had to remind himself, because that was wrong, he’d been wrong) and he took walks. Long walks. Deliberately through the dodgy areas of town, sometimes, just so he could halt a mugging or two before going back to his cold flat and his cold flatmate and his deflated life.

At least there was one thing he could bring up that John would _have_ to have a whole conversation with him about.

“John,” Sherlock said softly over a Full English. It was a Sunday breakfast on a Saturday, but the full moon was tomorrow, John was hungry as hell, and Sherlock had wanted to try and spend some time with him.

“Yep?” John’s tone was friendly – it always was, which was an endless source of confusion on Sherlock’s part – but he wouldn’t so much as look up from his food.

“Will you be here tomorrow night?” Sherlock put down his cutlery and picked up his coffee, peering over the rim of the mug at John. He wasn’t staring. Definitely not. Not longingly, either. Absolutely no way.

John nodded with a small him, putting down his knife to take a sip of his own drink: a full pint of orange juice. “Don’t see why I wouldn’t be.”

“Good,” Sherlock said with a slight nod. “I’m glad, I mean.”

“Well, I don’t have anywhere else to go,” John pointed out, risking a glance up. His eyes met Sherlock’s, and Sherlock looked away first, back down to his breakfast to mask his relief.

“I don’t think the cage in the woods has been touched,” Sherlock said mildly. “If you’d wanted, I’d have gone to check for you. It’s a bit late now, mind.”

John hummed again and went for his black pudding. “I’ll be staying here.”

“Okay.”

Sherlock had been hoping for perhaps a reassuring smile, or at least some more conversation, but that seemed to be all John wanted to offer. Fortunately, Sherlock wasn’t one to give up so easily. He’d given John plenty of room, and now it was his turn to try again.

“May I sit in?” he pressed, eyes stuck to his plate. He was focusing very hard on getting the fat off of his bacon.

“Course you can sit in,” John said immediately, and Sherlock recognised a slight undertone of surprise in there. John had looked up at him, cutlery hovering over his plate. “You always sit in.”

Sherlock nodded, clinging to the excuse that his mouth was full of tomatoes as to why he wasn’t willing to say anything more. John continued to watch him for a few more long seconds. He tried to take a few more sips of his coffee so he wouldn’t look like such a twat with his mouth bulging out the way it was.

“Look, Sherlock…”

Ah. Here. John was beginning to understand. Sherlock didn’t know what he’d said that tipped him over the edge, but, apparently, something had done the trick.

“I know I’ve been a bit cold to you lately. And I’m sorry.” The words seemed to be struggling to get out. John swallowed. “Actually, I really am. I’m very sorry that I’ve been so cold to you. But I’ve been very frustrated with you this week.”

“Evidently,” Sherlock commented, purely because he couldn’t stop himself. He crammed his mouth full again at the disgruntled flash that came over John’s features.

“Have you figured out why I’m annoyed at you yet?” he asked. Sherlock hesitated and then shook his head. John sighed. “It’s… It’s a bit hard to explain. Do you remember what you said to me?”

This time is was a firm nod and a supportive grunt. Sherlock remembered every word of his little speech. He’d gone over it several times in his head trying to figure out where he’d gone wrong.

“Okay. The part I found most irritating was how you seemed to twist everything around in a way that put you back as the centre of attention.” John finished his breakfast and put his cutlery together. He drained his glass before he continued. “I mean… Seventeen people were attacked by Jim bloody Moriarty and his henchman, and then two weeks later they knocked me out and went through our cupboards like they owned the place. Just seeing how _close_ they’d been, and, _Jesus,_ I could _smell_ them in our very _flat_ , and they were supposed to be _dead_ , it just… It was a really awful shock. And then straight away you came out and turned everything back onto you, and how everything you’ve done is important, and it all comes down to you, and I hated it. The world doesn’t revolve around you and your sleeping habits, Sherlock.”

Sherlock felt the words like a punch to the chest. The heat had risen over John’s face again as he’d worked himself up, but now he was frantically trying to calm down and, no doubt, trying to remember why he was apologising. Sherlock stayed silent, but offered a slight nod to let John know he’d listened and understood.

“I also felt like you were undermining the problem, in a way,” John continued, speaking much more calmly. “You seemed to be making light of it when really, at least to _me_ , it’s not a nice thing to have. It’s not desirable. I can hardly stop myself from bloody bouncing off the walls this week, and I wouldn’t wish those first few months on anybody.”

Sherlock nodded again. “I understand. I’m sorry you feel that way, and I promise you I never meant to say any of that.” He pushed the bacon scraps around on his plate. “I’m very sorry for hurting you.”

John smiled, the weight falling from his furrowed brow. “It’s okay.”

Sherlock visibly relaxed. Finally, John was smiling at him again.

He’d never seen anything so beautiful.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock finally got the leg over he’d been craving that night, and, afterwards, John was treated to an extra-claustrophobic octopus hug.

The next day was wolf day, and both of them could feel it in the air.

Except Sherlock couldn’t, of course. Because he wasn’t a werewolf. It was all in his head.

Both of them feeling far too restless and energetic for a lazy day at home, they went for a stroll around the park. Sherlock quickly decided that this was a useless vent of their last day of peak energy and dragged John back to his favourite road to chase down some drug dealers for the remainder of the evening.

They were back at the flat, both of them flushed pink from the biting December cold, by dinner. Dinner itself was a Chinese takeaway for four, and, together, they managed to consume a three-course meal for three – John had only just stopped thinking he was about to explode at nine o’clock. He spent his last half hour very slowly stripping down and sitting to wait on his blanket, folded neatly beneath his bare rear in the middle of the living room.

9:29 hit and John rolled his shoulders with an uncomfortable wince, beginning to feel his muscles pull.

Sherlock, however, cried out and, with a full-body spasm, toppled forwards onto the floor. He was screeching and clearly in agony, but John slammed forwards before he could do anything, overtaken by his own transformation. The only thing he could think beyond the ringing in his ears was _oops._


	20. Chapter 20

If Sherlock had cried out for him at all, John hadn’t heard it. His own change was uncomfortable if mercifully quick. It had hurt, a _lot_ , but he was used to it by now and this pain was very different to the bone-snapping pain he’d felt in the earlier months. It felt like he was turning inside-out; it ached, but it was less tearing and more being stroked the wrong way.

Throughout his transformation he lost track of Sherlock and was only able to find him again when he was finished. John dragged himself up and shook himself down. He took a few clumsy steps to the side – it still took him a few seconds to adjust to walking on four legs, even after all this time. Eventually his new viewpoint settled and he realised he was facing the windows, so he immediately turned to see Sherlock.

Or, rather, what was left of Sherlock.

On the floor in front of his chair was a huge pile of black-brown fur, still twitching and jolting. The agonised howls were deafening in volume, especially to sensitive ears, but John didn’t care. He didn’t back away or move forwards because all four paws of his were frozen, stuck to the ground. It felt like hours before the sickening snaps and cracks ceased, leaving a wheezing mutt collapsed on the floor in their wake.

Only then did John realise where he was, what was happening, that he was needed. He came forwards slowly and, at the same time, Sherlock rolled his head around to take in his surroundings. He growled at John. It was weak, and an empty threat judging from the way his body was currently sprawled, but it was definitely a growl. John paused.

He and Sherlock had spoken about what his first changes were like. Sherlock had said he was utterly feral, refusing to acknowledge anything he knew even when it was clear that he knew it. John hadn’t quite known what that had meant, but he thought maybe he could learn some lessons from it now. Sherlock probably wasn’t thinking “It’s John,” he was thinking “It’s an intruder.”

John saw him start to move his legs, drag himself around to face him better, and stuck himself to the floor. He tried to let his companion know that he wasn’t there to fight him, he was there to try and comfort him. He shuffled along the ground, eyes on Sherlock’s all the time, but as soon as he got too close Sherlock’s constant low hum of a growl instantly flared into a roaring one and he was on four legs before John could even blink, ready to defend himself and destroy his enemy. He was a lot bigger than John.

John glanced around. The door to the main hall was still open. So was the door leading out of the kitchen, but through that was just the rest of their flat. His main priority was closing off Sherlock’s one exit to the outside world, so he took a chance and bolted from his position on the floor, leaping over the sofa and batting the door with a big paw until it slammed closed. Unfortunately, Sherlock was hot on his tail and coming at him with his teeth bared. Before John could get away he was snapping and clawing with all of his might at his rear, and John reflexively began to fight back.

It was self-defence, any sensible person knew that, but it only made Sherlock angrier. John didn’t even have time to be pleased he’d shut the door because the feeling had been quickly overtaken by those akin to the thought of _oh my God, I’m going to die._

They brawled for a long time, growling and scratching and biting at each other. Granted, the majority of the hour John spent running away from Sherlock. After that hour they both began to tire. It was visible in their fighting as they both panted and their growls lost strength and frequency and their paws missed their targets.

Eventually, Sherlock seemed to have had enough. He made one last-ditch effort at grabbing John, leaping forwards and closing his jaws around John’s neck. John panicked, but he knew the more he struggled the more he’d hurt himself, so he went still and simply waited.

And then he waited some more.

Sherlock’s teeth pierced the skin but went no further. He stayed there for a few minutes (basking in his victory? Dragging out his kill? Realising what he’d done?) as he caught his breath, and then lowered his head, pulling John’s to the floor. He held it there for even longer, and John began to get the feeling that he was being told his place. He’d take this to having his head torn off any day.

Sherlock pulled away. John kept his chin to the floor even after the darker wolf stepped back, trying desperately to get him to see that he really didn’t want to hurt him. It got difficult, however, when Sherlock went to John’s chair, lifted his leg, and marked his territory. John growled in protest, and Sherlock whipped his head around to snap and snarl at him some more. He quietened pretty damn quickly.

Sherlock moved on and urinated over his own chair, the doorway, and the leg of the kitchen table before he realised John had stood up again. John decided he wasn’t going to back down so easily this time, because fuck if he was going to let Sherlock piss on any more of their things, so when the wolf rushed back over and didn’t go for his neck, he was surprised. Instead, Sherlock mounted him.

John tried to buck up and sidestep away, because, Jesus, this was getting majorly out of hand, but Sherlock only ducked his head and clamped his jaws around the fur that was the scruff of John’s neck. Limp and verging on shocked, John slowly sank to the floor, paws beneath him. Sherlock stopped his fierce humping but didn’t let go of his scruff, instead dumping himself right on top of John and staying there. John couldn’t have moved even if he’d tried, the weight was so great, and Sherlock realised this after a while and let go. He settled his chin on John’s head and went to sleep.

John stayed awake the whole night, crushed to the ground by Sherlock and vaguely hoping that, at some point, he’d roll off. He didn’t.

At 8:01 the next morning they changed back. John was woken by Sherlock’s howls and screeches. Once again, he was done first, left to watch as the person he held most dear was broken all over by his own body. _Transport_ , John remembered. He had to look away.

He collected both of their dressing gowns and pulled his one on, folding Sherlock’s over his arm. Only when the flat was silent again could he turn back around, and his heart broke when he saw Sherlock sprawled on one side across the floor. He knelt next to him, combed his fingers into Sherlock’s hair.

“I’m so sorry,” John whispered to him, pulling his head into his lap. He knew he wouldn’t hear it. Maybe that made it easier. He kissed his forehead and laid the gown over his crotch to give him a bit of privacy, because John definitely wasn’t ready to take him to bed yet. He stayed there for a minute, hugging Sherlock’s head to his chest and feeling bloody awful for being the one to do this to him – after all, who else could it have been?

With a sigh and a grunt, he put Sherlock in his dressing gown and lifted him up, bridal style.

“Bloody hell,” John grumbled under the weight. He was hardly strong enough to lift Sherlock after a night of fighting and wolfing, but he didn’t let go until his love was safely laid in their bed. Then, once he was tucked in and looking a bit more comfortable, John went to make himself a cup of tea. There was no way he was going back to bed now, not when he had so much to think about. Sherlock was probably going to be out for a few hours, anyway.

The one thing that kept coming back to haunt John through his morning routine was the horrible knot in his chest when he remembered that Sherlock had tried to tell him. Of course he’d been right, when was Sherlock Holmes not right? John had been too much of a righteous bastard to listen.

He came out of the shower with his dressing gown back on and collected his tea from the table. He took a few sips as he walked, but then left it on the coffee table and sank back onto the sofa to wallow in his stupidity for a while. He’d have to explain everything to Sherlock once he got up. He’d know something was up, and John wouldn’t be able to lie to him. Jesus.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock woke up in his bed at midday. He stared up at the ceiling for a little while trying to remember why on Earth he’d put his dressing gown on before he got into bed, and why he’d been sleeping for so long, and why John wasn’t sleeping with him. Then, when he got up, he wondered why his muscles were so stiff, and why he couldn’t even stretch them out because it hurt too much.

Their run last night, he remembered. He’d taken John to catch some criminals. That must have been it.

He tightened his dressing gown around his middle and went out to find John. There he was, curled up on the sofa, only… He had his dressing gown on, too. And his hair had been wet but not combed out. Showered? Why hadn’t Sherlock been awake? Why the hell did it smell of _urine_ all over their flat?

He felt John’s tea: cold. With a troubled hum, he took the mug and tipped it down the drain, putting the kettle on to make them both a fresh cup. When he put John’s down next to him, his eyes opened immediately. Apparently, he’d been awake for a few minutes already.

“Morning,” Sherlock said suspiciously. He settled himself on the sofa, settling John’s feet in his lap. “I think you must have had some accidents last night, from the smell of things.”

“Not exactly.”

“Oh?”

John sat up and rubbed his eyes. “Listen, Sherlock, we need to talk.”


	21. Chapter 21

_We need to talk._

Well, that could have meant any number of things. Sometimes it meant “I’m breaking up with you” and sometimes it meant “You’re not allowed to do this anymore” and sometimes it meant “Come here, shut the door, and kiss me” but it was clear that none of those applied in this situation. The more he saw of John’s face, the less sense all of this made. He looked tired, but he always did after a full moon, and he looked worried, but he usually did when he said “We need to talk” to Sherlock.

His brain wasn’t working. That, if anything, was easy. Thinking was like wading through tangible fog – he almost put his hands out and tried to bat it away from his eyes, it was so thick. Instead he rubbed his eyes and then bent forwards for his tea. His head was pounding.

“What did we do last night?” he groaned, pushing the hair away from his forehead and rubbing it gently. “Did we drink?”

It was almost painful for John to watch the sluggish nature of Sherlock’s delayed responses – because he _was_ watching. He could see the aches, pains, confusion written clearly over Sherlock’s features, not only because he knew every inch of the man, but also because he’d experienced the same things many times himself. He did some quick calculations: if what Sherlock had said had been correct, and the symptoms had started back in October, this had only been his second change. John still didn’t remember a thing of his second change. Sherlock refused to tell him anything about it.

He thought now that he finally understood why.

“No,” John replied sadly. He slid his hand into Sherlock’s and rested his head on his shoulder with a sigh. “We didn’t drink. We made a drug dealer literally wet himself and then we came home. We ate a shitload of Chinese and then watched TV for a little while, and then we changed.”

John tended to say “we” when he spoke about wolf nights purely for inclusion’s sake, and Sherlock didn’t think anything of it.

“I don’t… I don’t remember that,” he realised, shaking his head. He closed his eyes, put his mug down, and put his face in his free hand. John was squeezing his other. “I don’t remember any of that.”

“I know,” he said softly, biting the inside of his lip. He was hoping Sherlock would realise before he had to say anything.

Sherlock could hear the struggle in John’s voice, and he could feel the tension in the hand holding his. “John, what’s wrong?” He sat up, bleary eyes focusing (after a few heavy blinks) in on John. “What happened?”

The shrill screams went through John’s head again. He wondered how he’d ever managed to fall asleep with those hidden away in his head. Now he tried to smile comfortingly, but Sherlock, his Sherlock, he didn’t understand. Perhaps if he’d gotten a bit more sleep, given the moon some time to fade back into the sky, waited until he was on better form, he’d have realised right away. And it was his fault. John wiped at his eyes before he let any tears fall, and then he pulled Sherlock into a constrictive hug, clutching his head to his chest and curling his arm around him.

“John,” Sherlock said, even more confused by the reaction. The angle he was bent at was hardly prime for returning the hug, but he got the feeling John didn’t want him to. “John, did I take drugs last night?”

“No, Sherlock,” John sniffed, nose pressed to the bed-messed curls. “It’s nothing like that. You haven’t done anything.”

“You’re worrying me.” Sherlock put an arm awkwardly around John’s waist and gripped his thigh with the other. “Just tell me now, what was it?”

“I’m sorry,” John said, because of course it was his fault, what other wolves had Sherlock been around? He’d been dreaming of a sandy wolf. John’s wolf. “I’m really sorry, Sherlock.”

“Calm down, John,” he said, more firmly now. John would never talk like this. “It’s fine, I’m sure it’s fine. Calm down. Let me up. Talk to me.”

John, very slowly, pried his fingers from Sherlock’s hair. When Sherlock sat up he took both hands in his own, holding them tightly, right to the comfortable heat of his stomach. He was waiting for John’s breathing to slow but before he could say anything, the answer he’d been looking for came out.

“You changed,” John said, finally looking him in the eye again. “We watched TV for a while and at half past nine we changed. Together. Both of us.”

Sherlock’s whole face scrunched slightly in confusion. John could remember feeling like it would take a hundred years to process the words anyone gave him. He imagined it was hell for Sherlock, but at least he knew it would get easier.

“I… Wolf.”

John blinked and frowned slightly. After a hesitation, during which he realised that was all Sherlock could say right then, he finally replied, “Um, yes.”

“Sure?” Sherlock stared down at him. John swallowed.

“Positive.”

Sherlock flopped back onto the sofa and stared up at the ceiling. It was an excruciatingly slow process, trying to remember something that was probably such a horrendous experience it had been automatically deleted from the hard-drive. John kept a firm hold on his hands. Sherlock had come to recognise the troubled look of grief on his face as one he’d seen on himself many times just a year earlier, and he knew it was true.

“Sorry,” John murmured. He looked down at their hands. “I must have done something to you accidentally in… When was it, October? You said October.”

Sherlock shook his head. “You didn’t, John.”

“Maybe you wouldn’t remember if I had.”

“I remember all of your changes except last night’s.” He sat up, an idea striking, and started pulling off his dressing gown. “Look at me, John.”

“I’m finding it hard not to, Sherlock,” John quipped. He sat forwards and pulled it back over his shoulders. “Stop it. Right now.”

“No, John, _look at me._ Find a scar. There’ll be a scar if it was bad enough to change me. I _know_ it. I’ve read the files from Moriarty’s attacks.” He stood up, but even as the gown dropped to his feet, he could feel something clicking into place. John, oblivious, sighed and began looking Sherlock over.

“I can’t see anything,” he admitted quietly, after a long few minutes of searching every inch. Aside from every familiar scar, and even the less familiar one down Sherlock’s chest, there were no wolf ones. “But it has to be somewhere. Feet up.”

Sherlock, frowning, sat down and presented John with the soles of his feet. He was missing something, something massive, he could feel it. If only his stupid bloody head would _move._

“Nothing,” John announced. “Arms.”

Sherlock had some trouble lifting his arms because of the pulled muscles, but John held it at the level he needed and ducked his head to see properly. Just the sigh told Sherlock there was nothing there, either. “Stand up, let me see you again.”

It was Sherlock’s turn to sigh as he pulled himself back up for inspection. He growled softly to himself, giving up on the Big Thing. It would come with time. He _hoped_ it would come with time. It couldn’t be lost in the evening before, it just couldn’t be. He wouldn’t let it be.

“Why does it smell of urine?” he piped up, trying to answer a different question.

John cleared his throat uncomfortably. “You got a bit overexcited.”

Sherlock raised both eyebrows in a look comprised of both disgust and horror. “I what?”

“When I was at Mycroft’s centre I got to see some other wolves. Loads of different ones. And, well, some of them were a bit more… A bit more _alpha male_ than others.” John shoved Sherlock’s dressing gown back into his arms. “Nothing. Maybe it’s in your hair.”

“What are you implying?” Sherlock bristled as he pulled the gown back on.

“You were marking your territory,” John said simply, smiling at him as he remembered what else he’d done to claim his status as the alpha. “It’s fine, Sherlock. I’ll clean it up and we can pretend it never happened.”

“There’s something else, too,” he announced, refusing to let John keep things from him. He was already at a disadvantage for not remembering a single thing from the entire night; he wasn’t going to let him have this one up on him.

John shook his head and sat back with his tea. Sherlock noticed he looked calmer, and decided that this was definitely the best direction to be going in right now.

“No, tell me,” Sherlock demanded, standing up and staring down at John. “What is it, what else happened last night?”

“It’s nothing, Sherlock. Really.” John bit his lips so he wouldn’t grin like a bloody hyena. “You just… You kept fighting me, and then you put me on the floor and did your business. That was it.”

“You’re lying,” Sherlock snapped, straddling John’s lap. His thighs burned. “Tell. Me.”

John’s grin burst out of his mouth and spread across his whole face. “You knew who I was.”

From the flushed amusement, Sherlock, by all rights, really should have known what that meant. “What are you talking about? I fought you, clearly I didn’t know.”

“Alright, maybe you didn’t, but… Well, it felt like you did.”

“You’re talking in riddles, you insufferable arse. It’s not like I’ll remember.” Sherlock crossed his arms stubbornly. John accidentally snorted an ugly laugh.

“You were just asserting your dominance,” John insisted. This time his grin was suggestive as he slowly sipped his tea.

Sherlock finally caught on. “John!” he cried, realising their positions and backing off immediately. “I did not!”

“I think I’d know, actually,” he muttered, starting to laugh.

“You arse,” Sherlock repeated, grabbing a pillow and tossing it right into John’s face. His tea went all down his front, but Sherlock stormed back to bed without so much as a second glance, leaving John cackling on the sofa after him.


	22. Chapter 22

The day was half gone, but they could tell it was going to be a long one. John cooked another big – if late – breakfast while Sherlock sulked in his room. He realised that it would be gone very quickly and then they’d probably both go back to bed for a while, so he tried to scale it down a bit. Scrambled eggs, mushrooms, bacon, and toast. And then he’d had a little worry about Sherlock still being hungry, so he’d done a couple of big tomatoes just to be on the safe side. Only when he’d dished them up two plates of food, sparing nothing, and poured out two glasses of orange juice, did he go and get Sherlock. Sherlock, who hadn’t just been sulking, but sleeping.

“Oh, God,” John sighed from the door. He sat down on the bed next to Sherlock and started ruffling his hair irritatingly. “Come on, you lazy git, I’ve made breakfast. You can come back to bed after.”

Sherlock offered only a grunt.

“I know you’re hungry, so don’t try any of that nonsense. It’ll be cold by the time you get there. You’re going to be eating it no matter how warm it is, so get your arse out of bed and come and eat with me.” John pulled the covers back and pulled on Sherlock’s arm. He was tired, sure, but he was in a much better position than Sherlock and knew he could get him up if he tried hard enough.

It took fifteen minutes. The breakfast had gone cold by the time John had a rather raggedy Sherlock sat at the table, but he was starving and definitely not willing to let that stop him.

“I’m sorry for not listening to you,” John said, making sure Sherlock was still conscious and looking at him. “I should have paid more attention and not been so bloody self-obsessed. I’ll do everything I can to help you now that I know.”

Sherlock rubbed an eye. “I can’t help but think that perhaps I did spring it on you a bit suddenly.”

John nodded slowly and buttered his toast. “Yes, well. Now we know the problem we can fix it, can’t we?”

“John,” Sherlock frowned.

“No, I mean… I know we can’t _fix_ it, but we can… We can work around it.” John shouldn’t have been surprised at having to explain. It was a wonder that Sherlock was awake, really. He’d have to speak carefully for a few hours.

Sherlock seemed to relax a bit more. “Good. I was worried you were suffering from some sort of delusion after the stress of… Well, I’m sure you know.”

God, he knew. He wasn’t sure how Sherlock had managed to keep it to himself for so long the year before. He nodded, and for a few moments there were no sounds except the clinks of cutlery against plates and glasses against tables. Across said table, Sherlock paused and looked up.

“I forgot to tell you something,” he said. “I didn’t forget, actually, but I’ve been overlooking it for a while. I’d been assuming things before but now suddenly something’s happened and I can… Oh, God, John, it wasn’t you.”

John had been left behind a long while ago. “Wait, no, you’ve lost me. Start again. You didn’t actually give me any information there.”

“Jim Moriarty gave me some kind parting words the last time he was here, last weekend,” Sherlock said, trying to slow down. His head had been thick and muddy for the whole day so far, but suddenly something must have shifted, because now he could see it all, he could see everything, and it was moving too fast for John to keep up with.

“I know, you mentioned that he… What, didn’t he wish you luck? You said it was for the full moon.” John frowned.

Sherlock nodded. “Yes! Yes, exactly.”

“So what wasn’t me?” John asked, shaking his head.

“The wolf.”

“What?”

“You didn’t do it, John!” Sherlock said urgently, pushing his plate away and going to find his phone. It was difficult when very few of his muscles seemed willing to cooperate. “You couldn’t find a bite or a scratch because there isn’t a bite or a scratch.”

John put his face in his hands. “Sherlock, I don’t understand. Please remember that I’m tired, too.”

Sherlock growled quietly and pulled his chair back to John, sitting in front of him. “Did I ever tell you what else Moriarty said to me that day?”

“Don’t think so.” John rubbed his nose and took one of Sherlock’s hands.

Sherlock smiled. “The attacks by him weren’t just malice. He wasn’t just telling us he was back, I don’t think. Maybe he was using it to tell us that, but that wasn’t the aim of his adventures. The four that died in London only died because they were the worst attacks, because he started from London and worked his way out.”

John stayed quiet, but his struggle to understand was written all over his face. Sherlock, however, had expected this.

“He told me that it was his experiment. He said to me, ‘call it pushing the boundaries, testing the waters’, and I had no idea what that meant, but I do now. The victims all had werewolf scars, John, of varying depth and extremity. Even the ones with the tiniest lines down the skin have scars. Any contact that drew blood. Any contact with a wolf that drew blood.”

“He was testing… How to make a werewolf?” John guessed, a complete stab in the dark from his point of view, but Sherlock beamed.

“I think so,” he stated. Giving John’s hand a quick kiss as a reward, he carried on. “Of course, we have no proof that any of the victims _are_ werewolves, but they all got scratched on the same night and they all passed out. They’ve all been missing since some point after the attack. He’s rounding them up.”

“Wait a second, wait a second,” John said, using his free hand to wave away everything Sherlock had just said. “You said it wasn’t me; what wasn’t me?”

“You didn’t bite or scratch me. They did it, and they hid it, because they knew what would happen.” Sherlock stared at John, waiting, and then – there, John’s eyes flickered down to his chest.

“They…”

“Yes.”

“Oh my god.” John slumped slightly as it all started to come together. “Oh my bloody God. I’m going to kill him.”

Sherlock only grinned. “Find my phone while I get dressed. I need to tell Mycroft.”

John nodded, drained his glass, and got up to help Sherlock find his phone, thinking about torn suits and bursting pockets. He started floor-level. Sherlock, meanwhile, went back to hid breakfast. His brain had kicked itself back into shape, but it was already winding down again now that he’d figured out what he had to, and he was getting tired again. He could only hope cold scrambled eggs and orange juice would be enough to keep him going until he could sleep again, because he’d be refusing to get back in that bed until he’d told Mycroft what he knew.

He would have considered telling Lestrade, too, had he not been convinced that it would do no good. Mycroft had so many means of investigation that even a few hints could bring a wealth of information, but Scotland Yard only had the police. It was like Mycroft being a King and Lestrade being… Well, a police officer. The analogy seemed to fail slightly there. Sherlock blamed his glitching brain.

“Got it,” John called, handing the phone over. “It was under the table. Must have fallen out of your pocket last night. Call Mycroft and we can go to bed for a couple more hours, because I think my arms are going to fall off soon.”

“Mm, I’m feeling much the same,” Sherlock agreed, shovelling his last few mouthfuls of food in and dialling Mycroft with his mouth still full.

While Sherlock was explaining the incident and his various clues, John went about tidying the few bits of the flat he could, meaning trying to mop up the puddles and cover the stench. It really was sickening.

He was doing a second round of antibacterial spray over all three patches when the doorbell rang. It didn’t sound to him like the ring of a typical client, but he could hardly ignore it. It was when he got the door of the living room that he realised he’d missed the little puddle that was there. He’d have to tell the client they had to come back tomorrow, because the flat wasn’t in any state to host any sort of visitors now. Still in his dressing gown, he opened the door.

“Guess I should have checked the peephole first,” he muttered bitterly.

Their visitor wasn’t a client – far from it, in fact. Even without his boss, Sebastian Moran was very recognisable, and John had to wonder how he managed to look so good after a change the night before. Maybe he’d been at it for years longer than they knew.

John didn’t have much more time to think because there was a bright white wad of cloth being held over his face and his knees were already buckling. His strength had been compromised and it took just two small inhales of chloroform for him to fall against the wall and slide to the floor. He could feel a few tugs and pinches, but it wasn’t until his eyes opened half a minute later that he realised he’d been tied and gagged. Fucking chloroform.

It was surely preferable to a clobber over the head, though, he had to admit, but maybe the thought of how good Sebastian was at tying people up was a bit too far.

A minute later there were heavy footfalls on the stairs and Sherlock was dumped on the floor in front of him. For once in his life, John was hoping with everything he had that Mrs Hudson wouldn’t come and see what all the fuss was about, and, luckily for him, she didn’t. Moran seemed to be on his own, and although he didn’t say anything he was humming a little tune that John didn’t recognise as he lifted both men up, one over each shoulder, and dumped them in the back of a van.

Once the doors had been slammed shut by a now-whistling, murdering werewolf, John allowed himself to be a bit scared. He rolled and shuffled over to Sherlock, who was still struggling to get his eyes opened, and settled in against his chest. He hoped his body was saying _It’s okay, I’m here_ and not _Someone help me, I’m here._


	23. Chapter 23

The most prominent thing on John’s mind was the state Sherlock was in. Unusually, not his state of undress, but the state of the body beneath the clothes all the same. He was painfully aware of how weak Sherlock had been all day, how slow-moving he’d been all morning. His system was exhausted and the chloroform definitely hadn’t helped. John supposed Moran would have had to use a significantly increased amount to knock out a werewolf, but Sherlock wasn’t really _all_ werewolf yet. His body hadn’t taken to it yet. A tiny overdose of inhaled chloroform wouldn’t do much harm to a normal person, but John had no idea how much hard it would do to an exhausted, alien system.

He shuffled up closer to Sherlock’s face and counted his breaths as well as he could over the rocks and rumbles of the van. He seemed to be breathing fairly normally aside from the occasional shallow patch or muffled cough, and, towards the end of the journey, he started to move with a bit more life. John looked up and was relieved to find Sherlock wide awake and staring down at him. He looked like death warmed up as he began his limp twitches and struggled against his ropes, and John knew better than to let him waste the little energy he had. With a bit of effort and a shake of his head he lifted his bound feet to flop them over Sherlock’s in a silent ‘stop that’. Sherlock’s breathing got heavier, but he packed it in.

The van rolled to a stop and the two listened carefully as footsteps on gravel circled to the doors. They were flung open and their whistling kidnapper was back, still looking like he genuinely didn’t have a single care in the world. John couldn’t help a quiet groan when he was wrenched out with a tug to his aching ankles, but he thought he did rather well at not being sick when he was slung over Moran’s shoulder. After a few dodgy swings, bobs, and more muffled groans from Sherlock, said Sherlock joined John hanging over the soldier’s back.

They were back at the old clubhouse. The place it all began. Of course they were.

With each step their kidnapper took, Sherlock made a gentle groaning or whimpering sound. John thought he could relate – the arm across the backs of his legs was pressing down to keep him from slipping, but the pulled muscles meant he was in a lot of pain. God only knew how many places Sherlock was hurting in right then, but it was only after the noises stopped that John realised how important they were. He couldn’t quite turn his head. Had Moran repositioned him to stop him from being so noisy, or had he just passed out?

His answer didn’t come soon enough, in his opinion. The whole house was deserted, from what he could hear, and Sebastian didn’t seem to come across any obstacles. He definitely had a destination in mind, though, because he kept his merry whistling up as he carried the pair of them through corridors and down stairs and, eventually, to a place that John recognised. He had no doubt that Sherlock would recognise the cells, too.

They were empty this time, though. Absolutely nobody in any of them. There had been a few empty ones last time he’d been here, but not this many, not whole halls of them. Sebastian was going to put them in the cells. He was going to strip them down until their scars were visible, throw them in cells, and keep them while the population was built up. Then the whole thing would start again. Who would think to look in the same place twice? It had, apparently, changed hands now. He’d _thought_ it had changed hands. It certainly wasn’t a clubhouse anymore, not according to the website.

But they didn’t get stripped or chucked into the cells. Sebastian kept walking, right the way through every hall, until they reached the room that used to have the betting stalls in it, and then he went through the next door into the fighting hall. John’s breathing picked up significantly as the smell hit him; werewolves. Two dozen of them, at least, but he couldn’t pick out individual scents, so he couldn’t be sure. Sherlock groaned again, and John could only assume that the wall of smell was hitting his fluctuating senses a bit too hard.

There were two cages this time. The one from the centre of the room had been moved to one side, and another slightly smaller one had been placed in the remaining space. Moran set his prizes down in the smaller one and locked the door behind them before disappearing through the door on the opposite side.

It was only then that John got anything better than a fleeting glance at the people in the other cage. There were loads of them. He’d been right with at least two dozen. They were impossible to count, though, because he couldn’t really see them all. They were tied and gagged, just like he and Sherlock, but John’s heart broke when he realised who they were.

He glanced over to Sherlock, a frown set deep in his face as he jerked his head towards the other cage, and he watched as expressions of recognition and rage battled for domination. He’d spoken to Mycroft that morning and nothing had been said. He hadn’t noticed anything wrong, probably because he’d been inches away from death, but why hadn’t anything been said? They were from his facility, after all. There was the guy who’d told him Sherlock smelt weird, there was the older man who’d given him the cards, and there were the two ladies from the blackjack table.

John felt sick.

Then, with a clatter and a violent smash, the door Sebastian had left through opened and Jim Moriarty strutted in, hands buried deep in his pockets. His whole face lit up into a delighted grin when he saw his two new guests, but still, he threw over his shoulder a fierce, “Fucking hell, ‘bastian, I said no gags! Do you never _listen_ anymore?!”

The smile was creeping back into place as he carried on towards the smaller cage. As soon as he got close enough, he pressed his bod against the bars and hung onto them, licking his lips.

“Mm,” he hummed, eyes narrowing as he looked Sherlock over. “Actually, you look quite tasty all done up like that. I hope he didn’t do too much nasty stuff to you. He’s really quite lovely once you get to know him.” Jim rubbed his cheek against one of the bars, sniffing in deeply. “Have you met the neighbours yet?”

John swallowed hard. His feet were twisted awkwardly behind him, so he closed his eyes and shifted them around until he could feel them again. When he opened his eyes, Jim was grinning at him.

“Did the ropes a bit too well, hm? That’s my boy.” He blew out a noisy sigh and pulled back, turning to look at the collection of people in the cage opposite. “Well, everybody. Tonight will be… Usually I’d say fun, but right now I’m in a more vengeful mood.” He turned back to Sherlock. “I can practically _hear_ how slowly you’re thinking right now, so I’m just going to tell you.”

Moriarty walked around and sat down on the floor next to where Sherlock was, staring at him with his forehead resting on the bars. He was still smiling, but it had faded slightly.

“Today,” he said softly, “I’m going to give you and Watson a little bit of my special medicine. That lot have already had their doses, but they’ve been given something else I’ve been working on to delay the timing a tad. They’ve got about… An hour left, I’d say. Maybe less.” He glanced down to his watch and then nodded. “Yes. Now, you two don’t _need_ to be changed for this to have the effect I want it to, but I’d much rather put you through as much pain as I can while I’ve got you. I’m sure you can see where I’m coming from.” He paused briefly to take a look at John. He knew, the smug bastard knew, that he would be hit hardest by the next part. “And then all you have to do is sit back and watch.”

John’s top lip curled back slightly. Moriarty’s twitched into a little smile.

“Simple as,” he concluded, standing up. “You two are lucky, really. That is, you probably will be, if this one hasn’t killed you yet.” He kicked a foot at Sherlock, hands sliding back into his pockets. “I know it’s a bit rushed, but, well, can you blame me? I was bored of waiting. I’m tired of having to plan everything out around _natural_ transformations. I have means to bring this to a close, so I will, and I’ll do it today. Sebastian!”

Jim turned and walked back through the door. “Come and give them their shots. And put my chair down here, would you?”

The door swung shut behind him. John saw the opportunity and took it, rolling over and wriggling his way up to Sherlock, who frowned at him, but stayed still. Once he was close enough he rolled over and felt around the back of his head, fingers getting tangled in hair until he eventually found the knot in the cloth gag. His hands were uncomfortably tingly from the ropes around his wrists, so it took longer than he’d hoped it would, but eventually he got his fingers in the loops and pulled the knots free. Sherlock spat it out and coughed a few times.

“Roll over,” he wheezed, doing so and wriggling up until he was at the right level. He was just about done with John’s when the crashes sounded again and Moran came back through the door, this time with two syringes in hand.

He kissed his teeth. “Little bastards,” he muttered, tucking them into the pocket of his jeans. “Boss said to leave them off, anyway, but if you don’t sit still for this I’ll bloody well make you. Hear me? Get over here.”

He pointed at the floor by the bars, and Sherlock, with a violent shudder, followed the orders. There was nothing else they could do but take the shot.

“How long have we got?” John said afterwards, clearing his throat.

Moran pursed his lips as he thought. “Mm. ‘bout half an hour, an hour. Not sure.” He tossed the syringes to the wall and strolled away. “Just sit tight and enjoy yourselves.”


	24. Chapter 24

Sherlock’s first idea was to try and squeeze through the bars. John’s first idea was to untie the rest of the ropes.

Sherlock conceded that John’s was probably better.

“No, _left._ _No,_ John, your _thumb!”_

“That _is_ my thumb, you idiot!”

“Not that thumb, the other thumb. _Left!”_

It took a good lot of coordination and teamwork for Sherlock to instruct John’s hands on where to go. The knot was a damn good one and had lots of twists and double knots within it, and by the time they were finished with Sherlock’s hands they’d already lost fifteen of their approximately thirty minutes and John’s hands were rubbed raw. Sherlock did his feet on his own to give John’s hands a break, and that took considerably less time.

“How did you get here?” John asked those in the cage across, having worked himself across the floor to lean against the bars.

With ten minutes to spare, Sherlock exhaled to clear some space around his ribs, turned side-on, and stuck his shoulder out of the bars. He turned his head to face John and sucked in a tiny little breath to stop himself from suffocating. His head wouldn’t fit.

The one person who had made eye contact with John frowned, pained, and closed his eyes. He turned his head away. John sighed and closed his eyes, too. Maybe it was their fault. Had they done something somehow, or had the island just been taken over? Hadn’t Mycroft been watching? Or maybe they were annoyed at him for having Sherlock – they certainly could have used one of him right now.

Not that Sherlock was actually making much progress, mind. He’d gotten their gags untied, of course, and had somehow managed to get the ropes off himself, but no further than that. He was still very weak. John had seen that slight sway when he’d stood up even if nobody else had. He was turning his head now, trying to fit it through the bars.

“It’s not going to happen, Sherlock,” John said, finding himself quite sleepy now that he’d closed his eyes. “Sit with me, you need to get as much rest as you can.”

“Can’t,” Sherlock muttered, trying to go leg-first. He got stuck halfway up his thigh. “I have nothing to pick the lock with, John. This is the only way.”

“Didn’t you hear what I said? It’s not going to happen.”

“How do you know? I’m thinner than you.” Sherlock turned to glare at John. “I have to try.”

“You have tried.” John opened his eyes. The anxiety was etched all over his face, and Sherlock was only just seeing it. “Anything could happen any minute. Please. Sit with me.”

Sherlock paused for a second, something in him softening as he finally began to see what John was thinking. He pulled his leg free and sank down to sit with John. John rested his head against Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock rested his cheek on John’s head.

“We’ll be okay, John,” he said softly, sliding a hand behind John’s back to try and free his hands. “We’ll be okay.”

“They got past Mycroft,” John pointed out, closing his eyes as he settled into Sherlock’s side. “What sort of a chance do we have? God knows what they’re going to do to us.”

“We know what they’re going to make us do.” Sherlock pulled the ropes down and took John’s hands in his. “You know.”

John sighed and shook his head. They’d have to watch the carnage in the other cage, he knew that much, but what about after that? It wouldn’t take too long. He knew that, too. “I don’t want to think about it,” he murmured. “I’m tired.”

“Me, too,” Sherlock replied, kissing his head. “Stay awake. Someone’s got to keep me from climbing the walls, literally.”

John snorted, but his laugh was interrupted by a heavy moan from across the room. His eyes snapped open and he sat up, forcing himself to watch. He had to know everything if he stood any chance in saving anyone. The moans turned into groans, deep, heavy groans, and soon spread across the whole room. Even Sherlock had started whimpering with the effort of not crying out, but it didn’t take long for the screaming to start. John was glad when his own transformation kicked in, because, even though it didn’t last as long as the others, it gave him temporary relief from having to listen to those awful shrieks.

By the time he was on four legs again it was clear that nobody in the other cage had been left untouched. He backed towards Sherlock, knowing he had to stop the howls somehow but not sure what to do. Eventually he lay next to him and began licking and nuzzling his cheek gently as he tried to tune out the deafening howls echoing around him. It felt like a long time until they finally died down, but even when they had he could still hear the exhausted wheezing of two dozen wolves. He sat there by Sherlock and kept him company, all the while loathing his lack of hands.

As soon as Sherlock remembered what he was, he snarled and snapped at John’s neck. John reared back and immediately crouched down as he had the night before, thinking that maybe if Sherlock was his alpha wolf he’d be expecting submission from his pack. He was right. Sherlock towered over him, growling, and eventually backed away and started running around the edge of the cage.

This gave John time to realise that Moriarty’s plan was going swimmingly. He glanced across at the neighbouring cage but even with his exceptional eyesight it was hard to make out what was what. It was a big ball of fur, all different shades and thicknesses, and every shade was going for another shade. There was hardly any room to move and the shrieks and howls were unceasing, constant, as inch-long claws mauled faces and two-inch long canines sank into rear ends. John had to look away.

Sherlock caught wind of what was going on next door and slowed his run of the perimeter, heading over to the side closest to the action. He ran into the cage wall, desperate to get in with the action. His paws found their way out through the gaps in the bars and swiped at thin air but John finally got up and gave him a hit to distract him. He wouldn’t give him a chance to break out of this cage and into this one, definitely not.

Sherlock, apparently, didn’t appreciate this reminder, and he spun around on the spot with a roar and leapt on John, biting at his neck to hold him down. John was afraid that he’d actually get hurt so he stopped trying to wriggle away sharpish and let Sherlock get his boisterous humping out of the way. _Yes, you’re in charge_ , John thought, frustrated. _I know you’re in charge. Look at me letting you be in charge._

Eventually he backed off and went for the wall again. When John got up to check on the rest of the wolves, only half of them were left standing. They were trampling the wolves beneath them, in complete disregard of whom they were and why they mattered. John threw his head back and howled.

Nobody listened. Well, nobody apart from Sherlock, who barrelled into John again and resumed his obsessive humping in an effort to keep him quiet. John thought he heard someone laugh, but didn’t quite trust himself with all of the other stimuli holding his attention, and he could hardly check, pinned as he was.

He could hear Sherlock quickly tiring as the seconds wore on. The darker wolf leapt away again but this time resumed his guarding of the cage, running around and around the edge and leaving John crouching in the centre. He couldn’t move, and his eyes were frozen open. Why did Sherlock have to leave him facing the other cage? Because he was a prick, that was why. Even as a wolf he was an utterly controlling prick. Even when he wasn’t himself he was himself. It wasn’t fair at all.

In the split seconds he had as Sherlock ran past and away from him, John started to turn on the spot. He was looking for anyone, anything else in the room. Moriarty had to be there. He’d wanted his chair, hadn’t he?

He was right. He spotted it near the door, and it was further towards the other cage than his own, but John could see him now, and yes, he was laughing. Not out of malice but rather out of genuine amusement. There were half a dozen wolves left and he was on the edge of his seat, legs bouncing up and down impatiently. He turned his head and glanced at John, gave him a thumbs up. John couldn’t help it; he growled. Sherlock descended on him again. Moriarty burst out laughing all over again. Apparently, Sherlock’s inability to contain himself and intolerance to anybody having more status than a flea was hilarious.

And then gunfire.

Bullets were bouncing off of every surface; John could see them scuffing the concrete walls and floor and denting the bars of the cage. He could tell untargeted gunfire when he saw it, and his first reaction was to leap forwards, hurtling both himself and Sherlock into the far wall of the cage, the only place he could see that wasn’t having bullets rained down on it. All of the wolves were going insane, tearing with more force and howling louder. Sherlock was no different as eh scrambled away from John and tried harder to pin him down, but if John had ever wanted to fight back, his time was now. He refused to let Sherlock overpower him (maybe Sherlock was more exhausted than he realised, because it wasn’t too hard, after all that) but then a burning pain split his back leg and he was down immediately, an agonised howl pulling from his throat.

John knew what getting shot felt like by now, and everything in this form was twice as sensitive. It was unnerving to have all of the ability taken from his senses and put into feeling pain. His hearing swam and his vision blurred, but he could feel every beat of his heart thrumming through his leg, every tiny trickle of blood through a hair. The darkness became a blessing.


	25. Chapter 25

This time it was John’s turn to awaken to the steady beeping of a hospital-rate heart monitor. There was a warm squeeze around his hand, and then a deep, rumbling noise that sounded something similar to his name. He turned his head towards it but really didn’t have the energy to open his eyes.

“John?”

There, that was definitely his name. He probably could have opened his eyes if he’d wanted to, at this point, but he really didn’t feel the need. Sherlock knew he was awake. He’d probably heard the beeps fluctuate, or measured a change in a breathing pattern. John offered a faint hum in reply. Sherlock kissed his hand.

“Open your eyes, John. Let me see you.”

“Y’c’n s’me,” John slurred. He cleared his throat, frowning slightly.

“Vowels, John. Vowels.” Sherlock was smiling, it was in his voice.

John tried again. He was a little breathless, but got the croaky syllables out eventually. “You… Can see me.”

“Okay, yes, I can, but I’d really like to see you look at me. You either open them now, or you can wait and the doctor will come and be a bit less patient.” He paused. “No pun intended.”

“W’s that a pun?” John frowned again, thoughtful this time.

“Now I know you’re just being lazy. Open your eyes.” Sherlock smacked his hand, and John made a whining sound and tried to pull it back, but the hold was too tight. Heaving a great and slightly painful sigh, John began to blink his eyes open.

He was very dizzy, that was obvious. He was also starving, and slightly nauseous, but he put that down to the hunger. There was light coming through closed blinds and absolutely no way of knowing what day it was. It was worrying, however, that he was so used to waking up in hospital that his first question was ‘what time is it’ and not ‘what happened’. He’d change that right away.

“What happened?” he asked, focusing in on Sherlock. The room was dim but John could see his delighted smile very clearly.

“We got him,” Sherlock replied, lifting John’s hand to his mouth and kissing it again. “That’s what happened.”

“Got who?” John said with a shake of his head. His eyes began to slip closed again.

“No, no, John. Keep them open. Please. I want to see you.” Sherlock didn’t continue until John was looking again. “How much do you remember?”

John shook his head once more. “Dunno. Tell me. Jog my memory.”

“Moriarty?” Sherlock offered simply.

John’s eyes widened, and then narrowed up at the ceiling, and then recognition swept over his features before they finally settled on excitement. “Wait, we got him? How?”

“Well, Mycroft was a bit late, but the point stands. He told me he sent troops to every possible location and hoped for the best, and it worked.” Sherlock didn’t seem too impressed, but he still had that glimmer of relief and excitement in his eyes. “He’s dead, John.”

“For real this time?” John’s excitement wavered and he swallowed.

Sherlock squeezed his hand. “For real.”

“What ‘m I in here for, then?” he questioned, raising an eyebrow.

The smile on Sherlock’s lips faltered. John saw a flicker of anger tug at his eyebrows, and then it was gone before he was even sure he’d seen it. “They missed again,” he muttered furiously, holding John’s hand to his mouth.

“I wish you’d stop saying that, because I have no idea what you mean,” John sighed, rubbing his eyes.

“I don’t remember any of it, but I’ve been well informed that Mycroft’s men weren’t planning on actually finding us. They came in, guns blazing, and shot around all over the place in the hopes of hitting something. They _did_ hit something, of course. Two things, really. Well, four, actually, as far as I know.” Sherlock’s expression had turned stony.

“They shot me,” John translated incredulously. “Mycroft _shot_ me?”

“No,” Sherlock cried vehemently, sitting up. “No, of course not. His soldiers did.”

“They’re Mycroft’s soldiers, they were under his order! I can’t believe Mycroft shot me!” John stared at Sherlock in outrage. Sherlock swallowed quietly. He almost gasped. “Mycroft shot me _twice?!”_

“They were accidents, John,” Sherlock tried to explain, though he wasn’t sure why he was trying to defend his brother. Perhaps some rational part of him realised that they’d have been dead many times over without him. “And you’re perfectly fine now. It doesn’t matter.”

“I got shot, Sherlock. Again. _Twice._ ” John smacked his own forehead with a frustrated sigh. “Who else? Moriarty, I’m assuming. And Moran. Who was the fourth?” Sherlock was quiet again. “Oh my fucking God. Mycroft shot _you._ ”

“Really, John, you’re completely overrea—”

“He fucking shot both of us!” John shrieked, sitting up and still looking like he really couldn’t believe it. “I thought he was supposed to be saving us.”

“We _were_ saved. We were simply saved… Unconventionally.” Sherlock tried a little smile. John sighed and shook his head again, shoulders slumping. The question was visible in his face as soon as he looked up again. Sherlock immediately supplied, “Right thigh and lower back. Mine was just the ankle. Thank God for werewolfism.”

John grunted at the same time the door opened. The nurse jumped when she saw him sitting up. “Oh,” she chirped, and then she smiled. “You’re awake. I was just coming to check on you. I’ll get the doctor and be back soon.”

That ‘soon’ was the soonest ‘soon’ John had ever experienced. The doctor was in almost as soon as the nurse was out, checking his vitals and his wounds. They were almost fully healed, though they still ached quite badly. He was offered another night there to make sure he wouldn’t react to anything they’d given him, but he assured them he’d be fine and they were out of the building in an hour. John only realised how fast it had been when he was sat at home with a cup of tea just two hours after waking up.

“They didn’t question the healing rate,” John pointed out suddenly, looking up from his paper.

“No,” Sherlock agreed, apparently not concerned. “Mycroft.”

“Oh.” Just the name was enough of an explanation, apparently. He let the silence tick by for a while. “And he’s really sure this time?”

Sherlock glanced up at John from his laptop for a moment. _“I’m_ sure.”

John nodded and began reading again. “One more thing,” he said after a moment, making Sherlock sigh in frustration. “Just one more. The night Sebastian Moran took us, did he look… well, did he look like he’d wolfed the night before?”

Sherlock frowned. He looked up slowly. “I… I don’t remember. I wasn’t entirely compos mentis.”

John nodded. “Right. It’s just he seemed to look very well. He was whistling and all sorts.”

“I don’t know,” Sherlock said, shaking his head. “Sorry.”

“Mm,” John dismissed. “I wasn’t feeling at my best either. Maybe that’s just what happens when you’ve been at it for a while.”

“Maybe.”

The afternoon wore on in silence. They got a takeaway for dinner, John’s back aching too much to stand and cook and Sherlock’s ankle aching too much to stand and help with dinner, and slumped over each other on the sofa in front of an old Western film as they finished it. The pair of them, crippled as they were, helped each other to bed, rather unsuccessfully. John was hanging off of Sherlock, who could hardly hold himself up when he only had a wall to cling to. They had to stop a few times as John needed laughing breaks every time Sherlock slid a few feet down the wall.

Eventually they made it to bed at a nice, normal time of half past eleven. John was curled into Sherlock’s front, hands fisted in his pyjama top. Sherlock’s were rubbing his back gently. They were both silent, eyes closed. Ready to fall asleep at any minute. But both were wide awake for two hours, and both knew it.

Eventually, John spat out what he’d been chewing all night.

“Sherlock,” he whispered.

“Yes,” came the gentle reply.

“If Moriarty had a drug that could make people change, couldn’t he also have a drug that could make people… Stay the same?”

Sherlock was quiet for a few minutes, but they wore on for so long that John thought maybe he’d just been sleeping-talking when he’d replied earlier. “He could.”

John opened his eyes and paused. “What’s the likelihood of its existence?”

Sherlock opened his eyes. “I’ve absolutely no idea.”

John left it at that.

And then he didn’t.

“Want to go and find it?” he whispered, looking up.

Sherlock grinned down at him. “God, yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WE'VE MADE IT. CONGRATULATIONS, EVERYBODY. GOOD GAME, GOOD GAME.
> 
> I don't mind where you want to go from here, I truly don't. You can stay for one more (possibly small, not sure yet, and possibly final, also not sure yet) installment to this series, or you can back out now. I'm hoping it'll just be something to round everything off nicely. That's what I'm planning. But my things never go to plan.
> 
> Anywho, thanks so much for all the kudos and comments and love and support through the hiatus and everything. Means loads to me, honestly. Hope to see you again soon. <3

**Author's Note:**

> Aaaand there's now a [Tumblr](http://theandersaur.tumblr.com) for my AO3! Not much exclusive content, but good for messaging and fic updates when the time comes. See you soon, folks.


End file.
